


Can't fight the Moonlight

by thelogicoftaste



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (I have a crush on Boyd), Alternate Universe - Human, Bar!AU, F/M, Isaac is a Whittemore, Jackson and Derek are bros, Jackson is a douchebag but everybody loves him anyway, Jackson wins the award for most annoying sibling of the year, Literally everybody has a crush on Boyd, M/M, Stiles Stilinski and the Gang are Flawless Dancing Extraordinaires, The Gang will take none of your gender-typical-insult bullshit, but like the most pissy bros of all time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-17 16:57:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/869849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelogicoftaste/pseuds/thelogicoftaste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bar-top dancing, fruity-tequila shots and even more shenanigans; the Sterek Coyote Ugly AU that you didn’t even know you wanted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> What's that? Tania actually wrote something that is not ridden with angst? It's a Christmas miracle! Except that it is not Christmas nor Winter. So ignore that (even though I mention Christmas a lot in this fic, I have no idea why, just go with it!)  
> This all started with my sister and I being left alone one day and (badly) lip-synching to Magic TV's Ultimate 90's Pop Hits Countdown. We regret absolutely nothing.  
> Also, I love Jackson, I _miss_ Jackson, so this one is for you, baby.  
>  Comments would be wonderful, let me know if you think I'm the least bit funny in case I should stop my burgeoning career in comedy. (I kid!)  
> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Of course, Teen Wolf does not belong to me (sad as it may be) it belongs to the original creator Jeff Davis, and all the affiliates of MTV, all of whom created this wonderful series - thanks be to you, Ladies and Gents :)

Derek can hear them as he makes his weary way up the stone stairs to the loft; their voices coalescing high with volume and laughter and it makes Derek sigh before he even reaches his door. He hefts his leather messenger bag over his shoulder and moves the pile of files and books he has in his hand under his arm as he opens the door.

He fumbles with trying to get his keys out of his trouser pocket; he curses himself for placing them back in his jeans when he got out of his car and silently vows to never let anyone buy him clothes ever again after it takes a good five minutes to extract his keys from his tight, _tight_ jeans.

It’s not until he finally places his key in the slot and tries to twist that he realises the door is already open, it must have been for his friends to walk in. He leans his head on the cool surface of the door and sighs out a gruff breath, the day is _testing_ him.

Eventually he does manage to open the door and the sight that greets him is one that is more than familiar: the entirety of his close social circle is lounging around his living room. His older sister Laura is sitting atop the window seat that runs along the bottom of the wide windows flanking the other side of the loft. She’s in her pyjamas, as if she actually lives here, with her hair piled atop her head in a messy bun as she paints her toes buttercup yellow.

Isaac lies entwined with Derek’s little sister Cora on the large grey corner sofa that takes precedence over the middle of the living room, their eyes trained on the superhero movie playing on the television even as they carry on their conversation, Isaac’s tumble of brown curls pushed up close to the dark locks on Cora’s head.

Derek’s best friend Jackson stands in the open-plan kitchen, leaning on the counter and eating peanut butter from the jar that Derek had hidden from him mere days before. He’s wearing an obnoxiously superfluous strand of light grey fabric around his neck, like a stylish scarf, and sunglasses despite the fact that he’s inside.

He looks like an idiot.

Derek scowls at him.

But Jackson is not even looking at Derek it seems, he’s completely engrossed in whatever conversation had been happening as Derek had come in.

“-but Derek won’t like it,” Isaac is saying, before he turns to look over the back of the sofa, smiling at Derek in greeting. “Hey man.”

Derek shuts the door with a heavy thud and walks over to dump his school stuff on the coffee table before smacking Isaac atop the head and giving both he and Cora a warning look, watching with amusement as they scramble to sit on opposite sides of the couch.

He ignores Laura’s disdainful scoff behind him and makes a beeline towards the fridge, completely ignoring Jackson’s proffered fist. He would feel bad for ignoring him but Jackson’s been trying to fist bump Derek for the past _decade_ , he really should know better by now.  

Instead he pulls off Jackson’s sunglasses and throws them across the counter despite Jackson’s offended expression.

“I won’t like what?” Derek asks as he begins to rummage in the fridge, the cold air wafting over his face making his migraine the slightest bit better.

“There’s a new club that’s been opened,” Cora supplies, hanging over the back of the sofa and looking at Derek. “We should go.”

“You can go,” Derek replies and he moves over to the sofa, an iced beer in one hand and a plate of cold pizza in the other; he pointedly sits between Isaac and Cora. “I’ll pass.”

Laura snorts a laugh, sighing an _‘I told you so’_ in an insufferably mocking voice, Derek would make a biting remark but Laura’s not even paying attention anymore; bopping her head to the music that’s coming from the single earphone, plugged to her iPod, in her ear.

Jackson flops on the couch next to Isaac, instantly curling an arm around his neck and bringing his head down to Jackson’s lap as he noogies his hair.

“ _Jackson_ ,” Isaac seethes, voice muffled by his brother’s shirt as he grapples at Jackson’s arm. “You fuckin-”

“You know, Derek,” Cora murmurs as she watches Isaac struggle against Jackson with an amused glint in her eye. “Not everything is about studying.”

Derek sighs and looks down at his hands, his fingers are tinged in blue and black ink, calloused due to the sheer amount of typing he had done for his thesis that morning and there is a blunt pressure pressing against his cranium, the power of it has been building like a dam behind his eyes in the steady increase of the hours he spent staring at his laptop.

“I’m busy,” Derek says as he props his feet up on the dark, polished wood coffee table. The thing is that he _is_ busy; he has his thesis to finish, and the tiring expectations of his job and not to mention the amount of extra work he has to do for his graduate’s degree.

He doesn’t really feel like spending a Friday night, the one night that they all have free, to visit some _club_ ; a club that will no doubt make his head hurt and his sinuses burn.

“Derek it’s just _one_ night,” Cora says, pushing her feet against Derek’s thighs, he glares at her when his beer sloshes. “Lighten up.”

On Derek’s other side, Isaac finally manages to extract himself from Jackson’s grip, blushing furiously as his hair frizzes up, he pushes angrily at Jackson even as his brother laughs at him.

“Asshole,” Isaac mutters and he moves to sit closer to Derek.

-

They drop the chatter about the club until after dinner; Laura had slinked out of the loft hours ago, going on date, so there was just three of them, sitting around the coffee table in the early hours of the morning playing a lazy game of poker, and Cora sprawled out fast asleep on the couch seeing as she didn’t want to spend the night alone at her and Laura’s apartment.

Derek now realises _precisely_ why he’s always tired: staying up nearly every night surrounded by his idiot friends and viciously playing for candy that belongs to him anyway, since he is the one that buys it.

“So are you coming or not?” Jackson says, shuffling the deck of cards for yet another round, thankfully he’s lost the scarf and the sunglasses, and sits relatively quiet on Derek’s right.

“Coming where?” Derek asks, smacking Isaac on the head from where he’s making moon eyes at Cora. They’ve been dating for about two years now but Isaac is still as love struck as ever.

“The club, bro,” Jackson replies breezily and Derek is once again astounded by how a twenty-four year old with a serious entrepreneurial job like Jackson’s can _still_ sound like he’s fresh out of college.

“Call me bro again and I’ll break your jaw,” Derek tells him. “I’m not your frat brother.”

Jackson lifts an eyebrow, his eyes fixed on where his hands move in a quick arc as he re-distributes the cards. “Well, _actually_ …”

Derek realises a split second too late that he actually _is_ Jackson’s frat brother, ever since Jackson demanded that they sign up in freshman year, despite the fact that Derek instantly abhorred the idea.

In fact, the only reason that he even signed up was because Mrs Whittemore had corned him one Saturday morning, when he had stayed over at Jackson’s the month before they were due to head off to college, and told him that joining a fraternity would do wonders for “bringing you out of your shell, sweetie.”

So Derek had relented, if only because of the kind look in her eyes that reminded him of his own mother and because he was shit scared of her.

Derek sighs gruffly, “I don’t want to go.”

“You’ve been working too much,” Jackson insists. “It’s nonstop; you’ll collapse in exhaustion one day.” He pauses, takes a deep breath, “You haven’t even relaxed since Voldemort.”

Derek tenses involuntarily, his breath caught somewhere around his throat.

Voldemort, that is _she-who-will-not-be-named_ , is the nickname that Jackson had graced Derek’s ex-girlfriend with and it had inexplicably caught on. Kate Argent was the curse of Derek’s life, her insanity and obsession with pyrotechnics was the reason that he and Cora and Laura have been orphans since Derek was seventeen.

They hardly talked about her anymore; in fact the last time that Jackson had even spoken about her was just over seven months ago when he had muttered _‘good riddance’_ under his breath as they read the article that detailed her obituary; she had died in a freak altercation with some wild animal in the middle of the forest near her mental institution.

So Jackson mentioning her now is a low blow, a fact he’s sure that Jackson realises due to the flushed look of guilt on his face when Derek glares at him.

Despite it all, Derek knows that he’s right though, he can feel himself giving in, and he thinks that perhaps one night away from his every responsibility will be good for him. He hasn’t given himself a break since he found out about Kate’s death, doing everything he could to occupy his mind in the meantime, he owes it to himself to have a few good nights.

Isaac’s at his side, trying to surreptitiously look over Derek’s pack of cards, thinking that he’s being completely sly all the while unknowingly giving Jackson full access to his cards.

Jackson smirks, “Come on, man. Danny will get us in quick and everything, he’s the DJ there.”

“Danny’s going to be there?” Derek grouches, he cuffs Isaac on the ear for spying on his cards before he scowls, already wanting to back out of going to the club. It’s a well known fact that Derek doesn’t like Jackson’s roommate, despite the fact that _‘everybody loves Danny, Derek’_ and then they look at him like he’s just dropkicked their puppy.

He remains that he reserves the right to dislike Danny, and no, despite popular opinion his dislike for the guy does not stem from the fact that he’s afraid of Danny stealing Jackson from him.

Derek has a dozen years of solid friendship with Jackson under his belt, there’s no way that this punk-ass kid with the stupid dimples and the stupidly coiffed hair can compete with him.

Derek sniffs disdainfully; Danny’s got nothing on him.

Isaac seems to intuitively sense the slight shift in mood emanating from Derek, or more likely he catches sight of the glaring dislike rolling from him in pungent waves as he scowls at the coffee table, and he sighs.

“You won’t have to even interact with Danny,” he soothes. “We’ll just hang out and avoid him, we’ll just have fun.”

“ _Fun?_ ” Derek parrots, and Isaac’s wide blue eyes swivel towards him, his curls tumbling over his lashes, Derek points a finger in his direction and tries for stern. “You’re not _going_.”

Isaac’s entire being just sort of _droops_ with disappointment and Derek almost takes his words back at the sight of Isaac’s downturned eyes and sad pout.

“Yes, he is,” Jackson interrupts, easy smirk on his face as he flicks through his cards. He nods and winks conspiratorially at Isaac, “You are.”

“No, he’s not.”

“Yes, he is.”

“No, he’s _not_ ,” Derek hisses, remaining adamant. “He’s nineteen years old. I’m not taking him to a club to get drunk.”

“He’s _my_ little brother,” Jackson says waving a dismissive hand, “He’s my responsibility.”

Derek curbs the urge to laugh in Jackson’s face; Jackson couldn’t be responsible if he tried and besides they all know that Derek pretty much takes responsibility over them all, even Laura and she is a twenty-seven year old woman.

“He’s living under _my_ roof,” Derek says.

Jackson rolls his eyes, leans back and places his elbows on the couch behind him as he drawls, “And whose fault is that?”

Derek spares a moment to stare incredulously at Jackson, it takes all of his carefully constructed, hard-acquired restraint not to lean over and strangle his best friend.

“ _Yours_ ,” Derek yells, a little hysterically. “It’s your fault; you’re a _pig,_ Jackson.”

Jackson shrugs his shoulders casually, he knows it’s true. He’s an utter nightmare to live with and Derek had roomed with him through college, he knows what he’s talking about.

He is messy, selfish and doesn’t so as much as sexile you, as have sex with his numerous hook-ups in every single communal area of the apartment.

Derek loves Jackson, albeit reluctantly, but Jackson’s pale naked ass wiggling in the air as he fucks his study-partner over the living room couch is something that no-one should ever see; the memory haunts Derek to this day.

When Isaac had moved to the city, he had moved in to the apartment his parents bought for him and his brother instead of opting for on-campus accommodation, within two short months he was standing at Derek’s door with desperation on his face and his belongings scattered in a circle around him.

“You’re letting Cora go,” Jackson argues.

“That’s because Cora is twenty-two years old and therefore fully legal, which _Isaac_ is not.”

Isaac tugs on Derek’s sleeve, blinking pleadingly. “Please, Derek? Just this once?”

Derek watches Isaac, who is looking at him with wide eyes and a hopeful expression. Derek never really could resist Isaac’s whims, Isaac knows it and right now he is pulling out every single trick in his repertoire.

“Fine,” Derek eventually relents and he rolls his eyes even as Isaac grins in excitement. “But you’re not drinking.”

Isaac high-fives Jackson and Derek just pins him with stern look and says, “I mean it, if I find you drinking I’m hauling your ass straight back home.”

“He’s not going to drink, okay Scrooge?” Jackson bemoans. “Now, if you’re done sucking the soul out of Isaac’s happiness can we get back to the game?”

-

Later Derek slams his last card down and crows his victory to a much-chagrined Jackson and they just lounge about Derek’s living room with nothing in particular to do.

“Where is this place even at?” Derek asks. “What’s it called?”

“Pan’s Labyrinth,” Jackson says before he sniggers; he’s throwing sweets at Isaac’s face where it’s cushioned on his arms atop the table. Jackson watches with amusement as Isaac sleepily bats the sweets away from where they stick at his red cheeks, his hand moving in lazy arcs, like a cat.

“Pan’s Labyrinth?” Derek repeats. “ _Really_?”

“Yes, really,” Jackson sighs, stops throwing food at his brother for a single second as he yawns before he resumes his task. He’s like an overgrown five-year old, Derek thinks. “It’s that big building on the corner of 30th and Second.”

Derek has seen that building, it’s on the way to the little restaurant that he and his friends regularly frequent. It’s a huge place, Derek is sure that it used to be a large, boutique department store, converted into a club now apparently.

“But _Pan’s Labyrinth_ though? I just- Jack!" Derek chastises and he smacks Jackson’s hand to discourage him from trying to throw toffee éclairs into the curls of his sleeping brother. "Stop that.”

Derek swears that he’s the only actual adult in this group, because _honestly_.

“Yeah, they rooted it on the word ‘pansexual’, the club panders to every sort of sexuality,” Jackson says, and he leans back against the couch, his lethargy finally catching up with him. “The owners want everyone to be included, I guess, seeing as it’s a college town and everything.”

He sits up suddenly, looking at Derek with actual, mature excitement, “Did I tell you about the owners? They’re these two kids, I say kids but they’re more around about our age really; and they bought the building about year ago both fresh from this tiny town in North California that nobody has even heard of before, and it’s already making a huge profit. And they did it with no backing investors apart from Anton Martin.”

Jackson grabs his best friend's face and smushes Derek's cheeks between his hands in excitement, “Anton. Martin. _Anton Martin_ , Derek.”

Anton Martin has been Jackson’s idol since forever, a multi-millionaire business mogul that represents everything that Jackson wants in life, so much so that Derek knows almost as much about Mr. Martin as Jackson does, due to his using Derek as a sounding board for his occasional overflow of feelings over the brilliance of the man.

Derek rolls his eyes, pushes Jackson off of him. “Okay, yeah. I get it. _I_ _get it,_ Jackson! I’ll come to the stupid club with you.”

-

The club is heaving when they arrive; Derek can hear the low bass break the stillness of the night air and vibrate the ground beneath him. They’re walking from where they had exited their cabs, towards the club’s entrance, walking past the long line of people that curve around the block and give them sharp, envious looks for skipping the line.

Jackson and Derek are walking at the helm, bickering in hushed voices as they approach the door, Isaac, Cora, Laura and Laura’s friend Nina trundling behind them.

Jackson has his idiotic sunglasses on again, making him look even more obnoxious than usual and Derek didn’t actually think that that was even _possible_ ; Derek is demanding that he take them off and Jackson is, of course, refusing to do so.

“They’re _expensive_ , Derek.”

“I don’t fucking care,” Derek seethes. “You look like a fucking douchebag and I am _not_ going to be a douchebag by association.”

“I don’t look like a douchebag,” Jackson sniffs. “And even if I did, you became a douchebag by association the minute you decided to start hanging out with me.”

“I didn’t start hanging out with you,” Derek replies. “You just latched on and never left me alone.”

“Shut up, you like hanging around me.”

“I tolerate it,” Derek says. “There is a distinct difference.”

“Everybody likes me.”

“Nobody likes you,” Derek comments, rolling his eyes. “I, personally, hate you with every single fibre of my being.”

Jackson rummages around in his pocket before he brings out his phone, unlocking it with a quick swipe of his fingers and brandishing it in Derek’s face, tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth with delight. “This says differently.”

The [picture](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lu1xtlEiei1r3905eo1_500.jpg) that is serving as Jackson’s phone background is the one from several Halloween’s ago, at some frat party or other. They’re both in costume, Derek in sports attire with his arm around Jackson who is wearing some disastrous blue and purple concoction.

Jackson looks like a piñata.

It's Derek’s favourite picture.

 _Damn_.

“Whatever, fine. You’re my best friend and you’re awesome,” Derek rolls his eyes and he says, “Now would you _please_ just get rid of the freaking sunglasses?”

Jackson rips off his glasses with vehemence and glares at Derek. “ _There_. Are you happy now?”

“Always,” Derek scowls but they're at the door before Jackson even gets a chance to retort with a scathing remark.

Jackson instantly switches to the confident, swaggering version of himself as he grins at the bouncer, a huge man, bigger than Derek even; stacked with muscles and an expression about as cheery as a dementor’s kiss.

Derek rolls his eyes.

“Hey,” Jackson says and he nonchalantly looks down the line where at least thirty faces scowl up at them, before the rest are engulfed in the darkness of the night. He nods at the bouncer, “We’re friends of Danny?”

The bouncer looks down at Derek and Jackson and their admittedly small entourage, then down at his list for a second before he scowls at the two of them again. “Whittemore?”

“Yup,” he grins, decidedly ignoring the murderous look that the bouncer is throwing them.

Now, Derek would probably take a bullet for Jackson, not anywhere fatal mind you, but he totally would if the bullet lightly grazed his arm or lodged in the least painful part of his foot or something to that effect.

But there is no way that’s he’s willing to jump in for him if the bouncer decides to eviscerate him and his stupid face right there and then; the man looks like he could eat Derek’s cold, dead flesh with his bare hands, maybe even possibly save his liver for a light brunch the next day.

Derek loves Jackson but friendship only extends so far.

Luckily, the bouncer doesn’t seem inclined to smash Jackson’s face in just this once, and instead he reaches back and tells his assistant, a tall woman with dark eyes and an athletic body beneath her black tank top, to give him the VIP stamp.

The bouncer places the stamp on the inside of the group’s wrists, as opposed to on the back of the hand like the regular crowd get; and the ink of the stamp is a vibrant purple instead of the standard black.

The design itself is an intricate circular labyrinth, an inked model of the [Chartres Labyrinth](http://www.unitync.net/images/labyrinth1.jpg). The letters “VIP” are printed on the small area in the very middle, whilst four letters surround the outside in the same succinct font; the letters ‘P’ and ‘L’ adorn the left and right sides of the circle whilst the letter ‘S’ commandeers the north and another ‘L’ is printed on the south.

The bouncer looks at them once more, scowls at Jackson (but Derek doesn’t really blame the man seeing as it's _Jackson_ ) and waves them swiftly in.

The inside of the club is not what Derek is really expecting, there are no tacky lights buzzing overhead or scantily-clad girls gyrating on metal poles, though considering the places that Jackson has taken him to before his expectations were way, _way_ low in any case. 

The club, although Derek should really call it a bar more than anything else, is a huge area floored entirely with dark, stone tiles that refract the soft light on the ceiling. A swathe of bodies coalesce in the middle, moving to the heavy indie beat drumming around the four walls of the building and elaborately dressed Drag Queens with bright hair and brighter smiles navigate through the swirling mass of the crowd with comfortable expertise.

They’re weaving through the crowd: mingling, dancing and towards the east, they’re handing out champagne to the VIP patrons. 

The whole place is designed with an aesthetic centred on balance. 

The bar is on the very north wall, the grey background line with rows and rows of shiny glass. There are six people manning the long, bar; three girls and three boys moving around the wide space between the bar and the wall with ease. On either side of the bar there is an elevated stage set, the east side is furnished with a drum kit, a microphone and a few guitars on their stands. 

On the opposite side, is Danny, sitting on a leather chair and surrounded by a behemoth of a sound system and two laptops propped up on a black glass table. 

The lighting in the bar is dim, but not so dim that you can’t see anything, a precise balance of accented mood lighting, so it's like the whole place shimmers, glinting off of the glass jugs placed on the tables for the standard crowd on the east side.

The walls are all painted a dark grey, except for the wall settled in behind the VIP area on the west, an elevated and cordoned off section with plush blue velvet sofas and armchairs around the dark oak, tables.

The wall there bears a huge painted mural of a [rural townscape](http://images3.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20111208000646/teenwolf/images/e/ef/BeaconHillsatNight.jpg), glinting lights in the background and a sharp precipice surrounded by forestry in the foreground; towards the bottom the words "Beacon Hills" are inked, with what looks like white marker, in an untidy scrawl but instead of ruining the picture it adds plenty of character. 

The girls immediately head off to the bar, already knowing everybody's orders from previous experience. Jackson, predictably, heads straight for the VIP section, leaving Derek to sigh and clamp his hand around Isaac's neck, so as not to lose him, as they follow behind Jackson at a more sedate place. 

They flash the stamps on their wrists to the bouncer standing just outside the corded off area to find that Jackson has already commandeered a table towards the back.

Isaac instantly sprawls on one of the armchairs looking around the club with wide eyes, curls bouncing with every bop of his head, as Derek slides into the seat next to Jackson, who's on him in an instant; unbuttoning the collar of [Derek's white cotton tee](http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ldB3hOtYUJk/TdSgh-DDFNI/AAAAAAABbTw/UPR4d4H0ItA/s1600/Ryan+Gosling+by+Art+Streiber+for+New+York+Magazine%2C+December+13th+2010+2.jpg), leaving his chest open for all to see. Jackson pats Derek on the chest and leans in.

"That guy three tables over has been watching you since you walked in,” he says. “I’m just giving you a helping hand, buddy." 

True to form, when Derek glances over to the table that Jackson specifies, three tables to their left, a brown-eyed, blonde haired guy is sitting staring at the newly exposed skin of Derek's chest like he's Christmas come early. 

It's actually kind of frightening. 

"You have excellent taste," Derek remarks dryly but Jackson just laughs, waving sardonically at the stranger when he finally looks up from Derek’s chest and Derek realises, once again, how much of an asshole Jackson is. 

The girls tumble in shortly after, Laura holding a large silver tray with six stacked drinking glasses, six shot glasses filled to the brim with a swirling, translucent purple concoction, a bottle of whiskey on the side and a jug of blue vodka in the middle. 

“How did you even pay for that?” Derek asks.

Laura just shrugs, “We have a tab apparently; courtesy of Jackson’s friend Danny.” 

Cora sits beside Laura on the other double-seater, opposite Derek and Jackson, and Nina bypasses the other armchair entirely, instead she sprawls over Derek's lap, curling an arm around his neck as he automatically moves to fit his arms around her. 

Jackson bursts out laughing, smacking Derek on the arm and pointing towards the previous stranger, who is now sending a filthy glare in Nina's direction. 

“Oh, shit,” Jackson guffaws. “You’ve got competition Nina.”

Nina flashes a smile towards the stranger before she tucks herself in closer to Derek, making it seem like they’re more intimate than they actually are.

"They're all gorgeous," she says in his ear.

"Who?"

"The bartenders," Nina says. " _God_ , Der. It's like they were hired by a freaking modelling agency. If you don't get laid tonight I will punch you in the face."

"Thanks," Derek says as she kisses his cheek and moves towards the empty armchair, and he fleetingly considers disowning every single one of his friends.

Laura is busily handing out the shot glasses, placing one in front of Isaac and working clockwise from there.

“Isaac’s not drinking,” Derek says, moving to grab the shot from the kid’s reach but Laura slaps his hand away.

“Yes, he is,” she admonishes. “Stop being so boring.”

Jackson curls a hand over Isaac’s neck and brings him close, “Just drink, ‘Zac. Drink _all_ you want. If he tries to stop you I’ll kick his ass.”

Isaac flashes a grateful grin in Jackson’s direction but as soon as his brother turns around, distracted by something or other, he swivels his eyes towards Derek for permission.

Derek just waves his hand dismissively in acquiescence, if only to give Jackson the illusion that he has any authority whatsoever over his little brother.

They all grab their shot glasses, the drink is named _Wolfsbane_ as Cora pointedly informs them, when Nina yells, “Bottoms up!”

There is a conjunctive dull sound of impact as they all smack the glass on the table’s surface for good luck before they tip their heads back and they drink.

-

The minutes pass by quickly and before he knows it, Derek is smushed up against Nina’s writhing body in the middle of the dancefloor.

His head is delightfully fuzzy, like fluffy pink cotton candy vibrating with the energy of the bass booming in the club. He feels the heat of another body pressing in close to his back, hands settling at his hips; when he turns his head back to look over his shoulder a pair of startling green eyes meet his and he smiles.

Derek turns around and presses in close to the stranger, he’s just about his height with plush Cupid’s bow lips.

Derek’s is only slightly tipsy but it’s enough to lighten up his usual surly disposition, he’s not that drunk but he is drunker than he has been in a very long while. So it all feels good, the stranger’s breath against his neck, the way that he moves with him and seems to slink closer to him in happiness when Derek’s hand skirts over his ass.

Derek opens his eyes and searches the crowd, his gaze finding Jackson with ease, Jackson winks at him just before his mouth is commandeered by the brunette in his arms. He lost the others about half an hour ago, having left their belongings in the safe video-camera enabled haven of the VIP area, so when Derek goes back, he’s alone for about fifteen minutes before they all return, looking loose, drunk and blissed out.

Jackson is the last to arrive, with glassy eyes, pink lipstick smudging the side of his mouth and another tray of drinks to everybody’s delight. They all drink for a little while longer until the music lowers into the oblivion, and for a split second Derek disappointedly wonders if that’s the end of their night but the doubt is soon crushed by the palpable buzz in the air of the club.

Cora yelps happily on the other side of the table, clapping her hands excitedly as her cheeks flush red with vigour. She stands up and herds them all to the one of the corded ropes, so that they get an uninterrupted view of the bar.

Nina squeezes in between Derek and the purple-corded rope, wrapping her hands around his arms as he curls around her, both their eyes fixed on the three bartenders stood up on top of the bar.

They are the three girls; all dressed in black leather body suits with metallic thigh-high socks, each a different colour, beneath their silver knee-high go-go boots. [The outfits](http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fXZToKkBkh0/Ua3UPaOE5ZI/AAAAAAAAAH8/b45YWSTYq6U/s640/20110723_afterschool_red_mucore.jpg) _should_ be complete disaster except that they’re not, they’re classy and stylised to each individual girl.

The brown haired one with dimples marking her cheeks and colourful rings adorning her slender hands is in gold, a wreath of gold leaves adorning her chest and a slither of skin on display through the cut out on the side.

The red-headed one, with curls tumbling down her back is in electric blue, the colour complimenting her hair to a perfect match, wearing a one-sleeved bodysuit with an oval cut out on the delicate curve of her left shoulder.

The blonde haired one, with the microphone in hand and standing between the two other girls is wearing her pink-tipped curls clipped back on one side and pink thigh-highs and a necklace of pink stars on her sleeveless bodysuit.

Derek leans in towards Nina, drops his chin on the top of her head and watches as the blonde one speaks, he can’t really hear what she’s saying due to the roar of the crowd and his own fuzzy drunkenness, despite the fact that he’s pretty near the bar.

The crowd is clapping and whooping and when she turns around, to pointedly look at the three male bartenders still on the floor, the crowd begin chanting ‘boys, boys, boys!’ along with the girls.

They break out in a chorus of cheers once two of the boys finally relent and swiftly jump up on bar alongside the girls wearing leather skinnies and tight black polo shirts.

One of the guys, with an olive complexion, wide brown eyes and an irregular, but oddly charming, jaw stands a little behind the brown-haired bartender and the other, a tall guy with ebony coloured skin and a shaved head above his dark eyes, steps into the light behind the red-head.

Derek hears a small gasp from beside him and finds Laura, clutching at Nina’s hand for dear life as she eyes the black bartender.

“Mama, I _know_ what I want for Christmas,” she mutters under her breath.

Derek is torn between rolling his eyes at her and smacking her atop the head when the crowd begin to chant once more. This time around though the crowd, is repetitively, almost aggressive in their enthusiasm, chanting “Stiles, Stiles, _Stiles_!”

Derek has a spare second to wonder, _‘What the hell is a Stiles?’_ before jumping up on the bar to join his colleagues, is one of the most beautiful guys Derek has ever seen.

-


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, here's the second chapter. This fic is probably going to be a whole lot longer than I originally intended so bear with me! I hope you like this one. Also, if you're going to click the links, the River dancing bit that served as my inspiration is between 3 minutes 15 seconds and 4 minutes 40 seconds but obviously to a much lesser degree since there are only six of them here (you'll understand what I mean!)  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this bit :)

The dark oak of the bar gleams shiny with polish and is wide enough to allow six people to walk about it without fear of toppling over.

The most recently arrived guy on top the bar, Stiles apparently, is like something out of Derek’s wet dream; long-limbed and brown haired, with burnished gold eyes and utterly blessed with a perfectly even complexion: he's fair and pale and dusted with red vigour on the hollow of his cheeks, brown-coloured beauty marks dotting the side of his face and down his neck, disappearing down the collar of his shirt.

Derek stands riveted, to where the guy is hanging over the blonde girl’s shoulder and speaking into the microphone with a bashful grin, his voice, smooth and firm, filtering out through the room. 

Derek feels a punch to his arm and he turns to find Jackson holding out his fist, having seen Derek’s obvious attraction to the bartender he nods lasciviously, a smirk on his lips as proffers his fist in commemoration.

Derek scowls and smacks his hand away, turning back to the bar and away from Jackson’s idiotically wounded expression.

The crowd is practically buzzing with anticipation, a moving emblem of the club's vibe, and even more so when the blonde bartender puts down her microphone and shouts over to Danny to get the music started.

The music booms out loud and clear amongst the whooping cheers of the crowd, [Missy Elliot's voice](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lxau2CKEqUY)motivating the crowd into a rowdiness; the lights settle low over the club, leaving the bar space as the sole, bright focus of the room and the six bartenders begin to bop their heads to the beat almost instantly, smiling beatifically amongst themselves.

Derek's eyes, though, remain firmly on Stiles as the music flows through the man's body, propelling the slow shift of the bones beneath his skin as he taps along to the music on the blonde girl's hips.

When the bass drops and the percussion starts they begin clapping their hands along to the beat, the crowd enthusiastically copying, and they spread out to cover the entirety of the bar, with Stiles and the blonde standing in the middle.

They begin to stomp their feet as they fall into synch almost flawlessly, clapping their hands in an even rhythm as they grin at the crowd; a definitive stomp, followed by another two in quick succession and then a single clap, again and again and again, until its deafening: a roaring beast of a thing that instills itself in Derek's mind, even through the fuzziness, and the stomps become the only sound to definitively reverberate around the club.

Danny is standing up now on his podium, moving along to the beat with his earphones hanging loose around his neck, dimples flashing as he moves and fiddles with the sound system in front of him.

As soon as he shifts the vocal tab to the maximum volume the six bartenders drop back into position as they begin to dance, their hands fisted in front of their chests, popping their hips back and forth before their movements become more and more defined. They move between each other, weaving in and around each other with a kinetic fluidity, always moving but never straying far from each other, seemingly gravitating around their respective partners. 

Stiles slips his thigh between his dance partner's legs, an arm dangling by his side and the other wound around the small of the girl's back and bringing her in close as they grind against each other in one long wave, her hands on his chest and their eyes locked on each other. 

They move seamlessly, every single one of them moving their legs in a way that is identically economical of their space and yet unanimously sexy; it's choreographed in the way that they shift their legs and drop back on their haunches to sweep their hips up but at the same time the sheer natural tenacity that the group has, the excitement for dancing in and of itself, makes the whole performance look easy and fluid.

The boys drop back into the shadows when the saxophone blares in the song and the girls take centre stage, their hair bouncing with each step forward and they stand with their legs spread apart as they slowly swirl their hips to the ground in a way that should look sleazy but isn't. 

The slither of skin showing between their leather bodysuits and their metallic thigh-highs shimmers with the lightest dusting of glitter against the overhead lights and the sex appeal isn't so much garnered from their clothing attire but rather the girls themselves. 

It's in how the brunette's hair tumbles in long tendrils from her fingers, where her hands bunch up in her dark locks, as she shifts her hips; and the shadow of lashes on the redhead's cheeks as she concentrates on the way she moves, a corner of her ruby-stained lips disappearing between the delicate bite of her teeth; it's in the way that the blonde smiles, seems to breathe laughter into her movements, sexy and carefree, her fingers tangled up in her curls and her head thrown back. 

Derek's attention, though, is instantly monopolised by Stiles when the boys move back in, by the way that his hands pull up on the fabric on his thighs before he's swinging his hips forward and grinding, slow and leisurely, against the blonde's ass. 

The girls move towards the back and the crowd roars as the boys come forward, Derek is glad he's standing behind the rope, with only Nina wiggling against him in her drunkenness, when he catches sight of the main crowd: a hive of bodies pressed in close in sloppy drunkenness, alcohol spilling everywhere and hands grappling at each other in their excitement.

It's like time slows down for Derek, his eyes focused only on the writhing countenance of Stiles on the bar: the way that his golden eyes darken behind his heavy lids as he dances, how his shirt rides up, caught beneath his arm, and shows off his lean, toned belly, the way that the rose flush of his lips frame the dark void of his mouth as it hangs slack and easy and the way that his hipbones peek fair and smooth beneath the dark cotton of his tee. 

Derek gets hard just thinking about it; thinking about how Stiles would move beneath him, above him, surrounding him. 

It's like he's been doused over with ice cold water, he doesn't know whether it is because of the alcohol or the sight of the bartender that makes him feel this light-hearted, but the surge of tantalising heat in Derek's cheeks is something that has been missing in his life for a long, _long_ time.

The group move back into an even line, with the blonde standing slightly in front of the rest, on the surface of the bar by the time that Derek has finished raking his gaze over Stiles, sweeping over the dip of his waist, the broad length of his shoulders, the way that his throat works and pulls taught as he moves. 

The blonde bartender is shouting at the crowd now, her curls in a frizzy disarray and a wide grin on her face. 

Her voice carries over to where Derek is standing even despite the music and she yells, "What kind of a dance is this?" 

"DUTCH!" The crowd yells back, the enthusiasm rippling through them like a current. 

Derek is more than impressed by how she can interact with the crowd and still fall in perfect synch with the complicated steps that her colleagues have now adopted as they stand behind her. 

She shouts out statements, her voice ringing clear above the crowd, and they yell back immediately, completely enamoured with the energy of the girl, and yet her movements never falter, even as she moves backwards to fall back in line with the rest of them. 

They move like they're performing an [Irish River dance](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w8EXDtoGfrs), hands clasped behind their backs and their legs shifting in identical grace, the sounds of their feet resounding on the oak bar with a deep thud even as the music fades away. 

Before long the only sound in the whole club is the roar of the crowd and the repetitive, rhythmic sound of the six bartenders' feet hitting the surface of the bar, Derek realises that they're all wearing modified tap shoes, the metal soles being the only reason for why he's been able to hear their stomps over the thumping bass of the music. 

Now though, the six create their own music as they shift. Their arms hang straight at the sides as their legs move in co-ordinated steps, almost too fast to be feasible, Stiles' cheeks are flushed a deep scarlet as he dances, his feet stepping forward and back, tapping with the toes of his shoes.

The group are a living spectacle, burning their dance on the wood as they sweep their legs across the surface of the bar and jump and shift their knees.

The momentum of the dance goes faster and faster, building up, up, up until it’s about to reach the deafening climax and all six stomp hard on the bar for one last time. 

There's a split second of silence before the crowd goes mad with a wild roar of a thing, cheering and clapping and Derek swears he can feel the entire building vibrate due to the sheer volume of the crowd. 

The dancers stand still on the bar, breathing heavily and grinning madly at each other, basking in the enjoyment of the bar, catching their breath before Stiles lifts his hand up to Danny, giving him the cue to start the music pumping through the club again. 

-

Derek gets swept up in the crowd almost immediately once he rejoins the main dance floor. He closes his eyes and smiles at nothing in particular, feeling better than he has in months, the music is nothing but an indistinguishable beat in the background, but the way that it moves through him is electric. 

He vaguely recognises the beat as the song from one of those indie bands that Isaac seems to prefer, blaring it through the loft on Sunday mornings to get them both out of the weekend slump. 

Derek's pressed up against a girl, tall with light eyes and dark skin, and is grinding against her as she moves like water between him and Jackson. 

Derek catches his best friend's eye over the girl's shoulder and Jackson cups the back of his head and presses their foreheads together, grinning as he leans in close to mumble incoherently in Derek's ear. 

Then he's moving, stumbling through the crowd with an odd sort of grace, so Derek closes his eyes and presses in closer to the stranger.

The girl's lips are ghosting against Derek's collarbones whe he opens his eyes again, his gaze straying almost unbidden to the bar. He catches glimpses of the bartenders through the gaps in people, he's standing pretty close to the bar and soon he sees Stiles picking a cherry from the silver bucket they have on standby and placing it between his lips, teeth sinking into the fruit as he pulls off the stem, head bopping along to the beat. 

Stiles looks up with an idle smile on his face as his fingers work on the neck of the vodka bottle in his hand, his fingers slipping through the condensation on the glass and the beads of water sluicing over his digits and curling around his wrist as he expertly scatters the alcohol over the four shot glasses placed on the bar. 

His gaze pans the whole crowd, moving quickly over Derek before it doubles back again, and he locks eyes with him. The corner of his mouth quirks up and he nods at Derek before he goes back to his work. 

Jackson crashes into Derek shortly thereafter pressing a fresh bottle of beer in his hand as he grabs his arm and pulls him away from the girl, slinking the two of them closer to the middle of the dance floor. 

Derek gets lost in the music then, standing close to Jackson, both dancing like the idiots they never grew out of being, screaming [_Foals_](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QRR_pvZcu-o) lyrics to each other with stupid grins and even stupider dance moves. 

When Derek looks to his right he sees Laura, her long dark hair flying around her as she moves and her head bounces to the beat. 

Nina is not far behind her, wrapped up in herself, eyes closed, mouth open, swinging her hips with abandon. 

He can't see Isaac or Cora and he knows that he should be more worried about that than he actually is, but he can't really bring himself to give a damn right now. 

The music flows straight through him, the bass vibrating strong and steady in his blood, the percussion a heady presence rippling over the surface of his skin. 

He does eventually stumble off of the dance floor when he gets tired, although he emerges on east side rather than the west. He decides to lean against one of the tables protruding from one of the stone pillars to catch a breather before he braves the crowd once again. 

It's here that his gaze finds Isaac and Cora, standing just a few feet away from him, dancing; or an approximation of dancing in any case. They look like they're being electrocuted, to be perfectly honest. 

There's an intense look of concentration on both of their faces as they move in short, jerky movements and Derek wonders how they haven't taken anybody's eye out. Isaac especially, with his hands tucked up to his shoulders and his elbows out like an aggressive velociraptor and moving in short, sharp jabs in the world's most uncomfortable reincarnation of the twerk. 

Jackson slinks in beside Derek, beer-less, to standing on the other side of the pillar and lean his elbow on the table attached with a look of sympathetic mortification on his face, an expression  that Derek is sure is reflected in his own. 

"They're terrible aren't they?" Jackson says, scrunching his mouth to the side in distaste in lieu of a particularly violent ass popping from Isaac. "We shouldn't have let him get drunk." 

" _We?_ " Derek counters. "Oh, no. This is all on you, buddy."

Jackson rolls his eyes at Derek before they look back to the dance floor, both Jackson and Derek make identically pained sounds in the back of their throats as they watch their siblings.

Out of the corner of his eye Derek can see Jackson lift up his phone out of his pocket to train the lens on the dancing spectacle that is Isaac and Cora. 

"No," Derek snatches the phone from his grip, he wouldn't put it past Jackson to put it on the internet and helpfully guide all of Isaac's university friends to the video. 

"Oh, come on," Jackson groans. "If he embarrasses me like this I should at _least_ get something out of it." 

"Don't be a dick," Derek says but he gives Jackson his phone back, just in case there's an emergency later and he needs to call anyone. "If I find any evidence that you've filmed it, I swear to god Jackson, I will call your mom." 

"You're going to call my mom?" Jackson sneers. "I'm sorry, I wasn't aware that we were still in elementary school." 

But he tucks his phone in his pocket nevertheless, looking put out as he looks at the dance floor again. 

"I can't believe he's my brother," Jackson gripes, sighing deeply.

A blonde haired woman, standing just in front of them turns around and addresses Jackson then, "He's your brother?" 

Her voice is a soft scrape at her throat and it takes a little while to decipher what she is saying but she sounds inquisitive more than mocking so neither Jackson nor Derek tense up in defensiveness. 

It's like a light switch being turned on in Jackson's personality, like Norma Jean morphing into Marilyn, and no matter how many times Derek sees it, it still astounds him. 

"The one and only," Jackson smiles. "Whittemore Junior." 

The woman turns her head to look at Isaac, whose dancing has calmed down to an easy sway, with all the grace of a newborn fawn as he grins, before she turns back to Jackson; her gaze raking all over his body, from his feet all the way back up to his eyes. 

"You look nothing alike," she says, eyes glinting, tongue poking the inside of her cheek in curiosity. 

"He's adopted," Jackson tells her and he nods and sighs along with the woman's soft noise of realisation. 

Derek's scrunches up his face in incredulous disbelief and he points at Jackson with his beer bottle, "So are _you_."

Jackson throws Derek an unimpressed look before he's turning back to the woman, quick as a flash. 

"Yeah, you see it's kind of tragic really," Jackson smiles sadly, face morphing into pseudo-sincerity. "My parents were in love but they found out that they were infertile so instead-"

"Oh for the love of-,"Derek sighs gruffly and he grabs the collar of Jackson's shirt as he hauls his ass away from the perplexed look of confusion on the woman's face. 

"Dude, come on," Jackson groans but he lets Derek drag him into the crowd anyway. "What the hell was that for? I was totally in there!"

Derek stops and turns around, moving in close to Jackson partly because of the writhing bodies that surround them but more to make himself heard over the music. 

"I could ask you the same question," Derek grouches. 

Jackson rolls his eyes, "It's not like I'm ashamed of being adopted."

"There's a difference between being ashamed of being adopted, Jack," Derek says and he resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose like some old haggard man. "And pimping out your family history to get laid." 

"Well, my friend," Jackson grins and presses a heavy hand on Derek's shoulder. "All's fair in love and war!"

He grabs Derek's beer out of his hand, still three-quarters of the way full and slightly warm, takes a huge sip and disappears into the dark mass of the crowd.   
-

Derek finds himself leaning on the wide expanse of the bar minutes later, and he realises that he hasn't actually been up here yet. 

The bar isn't one solid set, it has a lower level under the surface so that the top actually hangs over like a precipice. The lower levels are filled with bottles of alcohol apparently, seeing as that's what the bartenders keep pulling out from underneath.

There are two identical doors on either far side of the bar, the one on the west side, between Danny and the bar, is firmly locked whereas the one on the east side, closer to where Derek stands, is open and soft light tumbles out. 

The bar is pretty busy, but not ridiculously overcrowded; there aren't any seats at the bar so people don't hang around once they've gotten their order. There are a lot of people waiting patiently though, seeing as there are only six bartenders but most seem content to watch them flit around. 

They're a marvel to watch; there are only five of them on, with the redhead being nowhere to be seen. 

Stiles hangs around the back, on the dark wooded work space set against the wall, with his back to the customers as he's makes up a platter.

He fills a jug with ice cubes before he grabs the two tequila bottles, flips them as the two coloured liquids spill in the jug, Stiles moves his wrists so that it creates a tycoon of swirling colours in the glass. He garnishes the drink with lemon slices before he stirs once more and moves back to slide the tray to a woman on the other side of the bar. 

She coos at the drink before she thanks him and leans in, "You're a _cutie_." 

Stiles ducks his head on a grin and blushes, "Thanks." 

He smiles at her once more and moves to the next patron when she leaves. 

The black bartender is pulling a pint of beer on the far side; the blonde is standing near where Derek is waiting, dousing bright amber liquid over shot glasses and sliding them across the way before she wipes down the surface. 

The curly haired, irregular jawed guy is standing next to her, preparing a drink for the man in front of him, mouthing the lyrics to song echoing around the club as he leans around her to grab the clear vodka beside her, kissing her cheek before he bounds away dancing. 

None of them are wearing name tags, so Derek can only really distinguish them by the way that they look, but he finds that they tirelessly introduce themselves to each new customer. 

The brunette bounds over to Derek and she smiles, "Hi, I'm Allison. What can I get you?"

But before Derek can even open his mouth to speak a college guy standing beside him, obviously half-way to drunk and with a limited patience, speaks up.

“The fuck's this bullshit?” Brown-haired college guy slurs.

Allison turns towards him, her smile never wavering, looking kind and patient, “Is there a problem?”

“Problem?” the college guy says, he squints his eyes and jabs his finger in the direction of Derek. “I was here before him, an' he’s getting served _first_?”

Actually, Derek was standing here long before drunken college guy was, but apparently intake of alcohol interferes with this guy’s visual perception.

The way that Allison’s eyes flicker to Derek for a second shows that she’s aware of this too, and Derek should probably be more annoyed with it all but he’s way too tipsy to care so he shrugs and smiles at Allison.

Allison turns back to the other customer.

"I’m sorry sir,” she tells him. “I must have gotten my faces all mixed up. It won’t happen again. I’ll just serve this gentleman and be right back with you.”

“Look doll,” drunken guy slurs. “Just make me my drink okay? There’s _good_ _girl_.”

Allison does not take well to the condescending moniker and face changes in an instant, turning cold and reprimanding.

“Look," she says. "I don’t know what kind of bars you’ve been to, but here you do _not_ insult the staff, much less with gender-specific insults, unless you want your ass thrown out, you hear me?”

Derek smothers a laugh at the drunken guy’s face; he looks utterly stricken, completely terrified of Allison’s wrath as he nods.

“Now, I’m not particularly bothered if you _do_ get thrown out because you’ve already paid the entrance fee,” Allison continues, staring down the guy. “But if you do want to continue your night, I'm sure you can wait patiently for a few more minutes, right?”

“Right,” college guy agrees instantly, and he seems to have curled in on himself and he mumbles, “I’m sorry.”

“So you should be,” Allison chastises, nodding once as the drunken guy shuffles a little away before she turns back to Derek with a sheepish smile. “Sorry about that sometimes people just-”

“Allison?” A voice yells from down the bar.

They both turn to find Stiles pulling up a fresh beer in a pint glass but he’s looking down at the two of them; his eyes flicker from Allison to Derek and back again, “I’ll get that one.”

Allison looks at Derek before she looks back at Stiles and she smirks but Stiles studiously begins to pour another glass of beer. 

She smiles at Derek, “Stiles will be with you in just a sec.”

Derek, meanwhile, entertains himself by watching Stiles, but it’s not like it’s a hardship, watching the way that his forearms work, the concentration in his eyes and the smile on his face.

He quickly wipes down the surface of the bar he's working on before he turns towards Derek and walks up, grinning.

“Hey, I’m Stiles,” he greets, his eyes are much brighter this close up, with long, dark lashes framing his eyes like delicate flower petals around a golden stamen. “What can I get you?”

Derek opens his mouth to speak but finds himself stumped, he doesn’t actually know what they offer here, other than the standards, that is, since he hasn’t been the one to collect the drinks.

“Um. What is there to have?” he asks, mentally berating himself for sounding so damn ineloquent. “Is there like a menu or?”

Stiles laughs softly, ducking his head as the sound tumbles from his lips. It washes over Derek like a soothing balm, “Nope. No menu.”

“So surprise me,” Derek murmurs after a pause, leaning forward a little bit, eye flickering to Stiles’ lips and hopping back up to his eyes.

No-one has ever said that Derek Hale is subtle when drunk, but he’ll be as unsubtle as he can be if it means that Stiles smiles back at him like he is now: soft and a little surprised.

Derek can see beads of perspiration gathering in the hollow of Stiles’ collarbones where his polo shirt is unbuttoned and the dark sheath of material stands in stark contrast to the pale skin of his neck, beauty marks dotting a path to the dip behind his ear.

He startles once he realises that Stiles had been speaking and is now waiting for Derek’s answer, he rips his gaze from Stiles’ throat back up to his eyes and Stiles smiles.

“You didn’t hear that did you?” he snorts a laugh when Derek shakes his head sheepishly. Stiles leans in closer, breath ghosting over Derek’s lips, they’re nearly as tall as each other, but Stiles has to lean in further over the edge of the bar as he levels his gaze with Derek's. “I said that there’s a specialty drink, if you’re interested?”

Derek nods, he’d probably agree to anything to keep speaking to Stiles; he hopes that whatever this drink is, it has a complicated, very arduous process which will keep Stiles hanging around for a lot longer.

“It’s called Alpha’s Kiss,” Stiles is saying. “It’s pretty awesome, _strong_ though.”

“Alpha’s Kiss?” Derek says, and his gaze drifts down to Stiles’ face, hovering over the pink softness of his lips. “Is everything here to do with wolves?”

“It’s Lydia, man,” Stiles shrugs and smiles as he leans back upright, waving a hand towards the open door way to his far right. Gesturing at the redhead, Derek realises, since everybody else is on the bar. “She loves mythology and legends, so we just go with whatever she feels like.”

Stiles’ hands reach down into the alcove beneath the top layer of the bar, there are six black cashier machines hidden beneath, so as to facilitate service, and Stiles looks up at Derek. “Paying by cash or card?”

Derek is halfway into reaching towards his wallet in his pocket before he remembers, “I have a tab."

“Oh, sure, can I see your wrist?” Stiles asks, extending his hand palm up across the bar. Derek tries not to shiver at the feeling of Stiles’ cool fingertips wrapping around his wrist, but he also feels slightly smug, knowing that Stiles doesn't necessarily _need_ to touch him to be able to see the stamp imprinted on his skin.

“Sorry,” Stiles says. “I’ve gotta check, y'know? Only VIP’s can get tabs. Anyway, for which name?”

“Whittemore.”

“Whittemore?” Stiles smiles. “That’s for Danny right? You’re one of Danny’s friends?”

'Friends' is quite the home stretch, Derek thinks, but he can’t well be rude about the guy when he was so kind as to put him on the guest list.

Derek is in the middle of thinking of a way to make _‘He’s my best friend’s roommate but I hate him’_ sound polite when there’s a bright flash to his left and a split second later somebody is shouting.

“Hey asshole," the voice yells. "Are you _fucking_ blind?”

Derek turns around to see the curly haired, irregular-jawed bartender, just a little way away from him, leaning over the counter with his face twisted in anger and a fist in a guy’s shirt.

“Do you not know how to _read?_ ” the bartender growls. 

“Oh my _god_ ,” Stiles breathes as he turns to look, concern hardening his features. “Erica?”

Before Derek can even comprehend what’s happening, Stiles is bounding away to where the blonde bartender, Erica, is standing with her fingers pressing down hard on her eyelids, eyes screwed shut.

Stiles stops just in front of her and places gentle hands around her face to tip her head up.

“Hey, are you okay?" Stiles asks her. "Shit, let me see."

The curly haired bartender is standing upright, now being held back by the black bartender, who looks equally as pissed off but about a thousand times more stoic about it.

The brown-haired bartender is still shouting at the guy, another college guy by the looks of it with bright blue eyes and an expensive camera, the strap looped around his wrist.

“No flash photography! In fact, no photography at all!” The brown haired bartender is yelling, pointing at the notice board on the back wall where indeed, a _‘no photography'_ sign is neatly pinned up. “It’s not that hard to understand. I don’t even _know_ how you got in here with that thing…”

Stiles is still standing with Erica, her hands are gripping tight at his wrists, mascara pooling in a teary mess beneath her eyes.

“Can you open your eyes for me?” Stiles asks softly, and when she eventually does, blinking hard, her pupils are dilated in the brown of her eyes. Derek realises that the camera guy must have set off the flash close to her face. Stiles gently wipes the black mascara from beneath her eyes with his thumbs and he turns around. “Al, can you…?”

“Sure,” Allison snaps back into action from where she is standing, rooted to the spot, watching the events unfold. She quickly puts down the glass she's holding and leads Erica into the backroom, speaking softly in her ear.

Stiles goes towards the bartender, who is still shouting at the photographer, unmindful of the crowd that have gathered around him, watching with avid interest.

“I’ll handle it,” Stiles says, placing a hand on the bartender’s shoulders. “ _Scott_ , I’ll handle it. Can you finish Al’s order? Please?”

The bartender, Scott, huffs an infuriated sigh but he nods and he goes, leaving Stiles to turn a stern look on the photographer. His mouth is pressed into a tight line and he stands with a straight spine and his shoulders set, Derek distantly thinks that he probably shouldn’t be as turned on as he is.

“We have a no photography rule,” Stiles says, quietly seething. “So I don’t know what the hell you think you’re playing at but you need to get out.”

The guy scoffs, rolling his eyes at Stiles.

“I haven’t done anything wrong, kid,” he says but he can’t be more than a few years older than Stiles; Derek rolls his eyes and laments the amount of idiocy in the world. “And you can’t throw me out.”

“Oh, is that right?” Stiles asks, eyebrows rising. “That’s pretty funny, actually, because I _am_ throwing you out.” He turns to the tall, dark haired bartender standing further down the bar, “Boyd, can you get Nick for me?”

“Look,” camera guy drawls, and Derek didn’t think that that tone of voice could be more annoying than Jackson’s but evidently, he was wrong. “Why don't you just go get your boss, and we’ll sort it out between ourselves. I don't think he appreciates the help running his business for him.”

“I _am_ the boss,” Stiles says, tipping his head to the side and fixing the guy on the other side of the bar with a withering glare. Derek snorts a laugh at the way that the camera guy pales in realisation. “You see that little ‘S’ on your stamp?"

The guy looks down dumbly at the black motif stamped haphazardly on the back of his hand.

“That’s for me, _Stiles_. Hi, how're you doing? You see this whole building?” Stiles says and he waves his hands all around him, encompassing the wide space. “It belongs to me, so _yes I_ _can_ throw you out. And if I see any unauthorised pictures of my club on the internet, I will find you and I will sue your ass until the cows come home. Do you understand me?”

There's a single pause, the camera guy staring down at Stiles with a heady mix of unbridled anger and encroaching embarrassment, before a new voice joins the fray.

“What’s going on here?” Lydia inquires, appearing at the open doorway that Allison and Erica had disappeared into mere minutes before. She moves towards Stiles, ducking under the arm that he wraps around her shoulders.

“ _This_ guy,” Stiles huffs, indicating at the photographer on the other side of the bar with a cool, disenchanted gesture. “Is taking pictures of our employees.”

Lydia turns her sharp gaze to the man who seems to shrink back in lieu of the quiet fury in her expression.

“Is that so?” Lydia comments quietly, ignoring the photographer's half-hearted spluttering attempts at indignation in favour of critically raking her gaze all over him before she looks over his shoulder at Boyd, approaching with another bouncer in tow, and she smiles at them.

“Nick! Would you kindly escort this gentleman out of our premises, please?" she pauses, considering before she quietly adds, "Make sure that his photographs _don’t_ make it.”

"Hey," at that particular statement, the guy’s face turns into unabashed anger, “You can’t do that, you stupid fucking _whore_.”

Stiles and Lydia both tense, and Derek finds himself doing the same thing. The camera guy seems to realise his mistake almost instantly but it’s far too late going by the look of steely vexation on Lydia’s face.

“I’ll be _personally_ contacting the university on your camera’s lanyard, and I'll make sure to send them video evidence of our little encounter,” she says pointing first at the guy's camera and then at the security camera secured to the wall behind them. “I’m sure that they’ll find out who you are from your picture and how much of an unsavoury character you are, it'll do wonders for your budding career, I'm sure.”

Stiles slides his arm off of Lydia’s shoulder and turns to the bouncer, “Oh, and Nick? Can you also make sure that his ass gets banned from the club? Thanks, man.”

And they both turn away, from where the camera guy is shouting insults at them both, with a coldly detached kind of nonchalance that makes Derek thank his lucky stars that he’s not on the receiving end of their wrath.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is unbeta'd so all of the mistakes are mine, let me know what you think! If you're reading my other fics, firstly, god bless you for reading my rambles and I'll speak to you tomorrow! :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! So some more dancing shenanigans to be beheld! For the love of all that is lupine, do not try out the drinks I talk about in this one. Seriously, I just put them together for the pretty colours - I have no idea if they should be mixed or not (probably not) or if they'd even taste nice together (again probably not) so just grant me a tiny bit of artistic license.  
> Things to note! (aka things I forgot to tell you in the last two chapters). I spend a lot of time writing this fic to 30STM's 'Hurricane', which kind of (distantly) influenced the vibe I'm going for in terms of the club, which is why the club's address is 'that big building on 30th and Second' see what I did there?)  
> Also, I forgot to link the visual accompaniment to Nina, but what I see her as is linked in the chapter. And, if you're interested in seeing Erica, Allison and Lydia's outfits from the last chapter in motion, I've provided a link to the video in the end notes.  
> That's it, hope you enjoy - :)

Derek is pretty sure that he's fallen in love with Stiles' mouth by this point, Stiles is talking to Lydia over by the workspace set into the back wall, he's leaning against the countertop, arms crossed over his chest and his body angled towards Derek, as he concentrates on what Lydia is saying. 

Derek rakes his gaze all over him, from the way that the leather skinnies cling to his legs like a second skin all the way up to the way that his polo stretches over his chest, and further even to the furrow between his drawn brows. 

Stiles keeps biting at his bottom lip, sparking a red flush that floods into the marble pink colour of his mouth in the dip where his teeth sink in, before his tongue darts out to soothe the bite in one slick swipe, leaving his lips red and shiny. 

Derek wants to bang his head on the counter until he starts to cry, or perhaps even bang _Stiles_ on the counter until he starts to-. 

Nope.

That's not. 

No.

Derek is so not even going there; he shakes his head, trying to dispel himself of the thoughts of Stiles, wet and naked, bent over the bar and crying out between desperate gulps of oxygen as he gets pounded from behind by Derek. 

Derek doesn't know what the hell is wrong with him, it's like all of a sudden his libido has spiked to that of a sexually frustrated, horny teenager from the moment he set eyes on Stiles. 

It's not even just because he's gorgeous, because he is, but this bar is full of gorgeous people, the bartenders working the counter in front of him is a testament to that.

There's something about Stiles though; something deliriously indescribable about the way that he moves, the way that he seems to fit into his own skin with an ease that completely knocks everybody in the vicinity out of the ballpark. 

Stiles wraps up his conversation with Lydia and he makes his way back to Derek with a sheepish grin, as Lydia disappears through the open door again, he rubs the back of his neck like he's just realised that Derek witnessed his display of authority with the photographer and he's embarrassed by it. 

When Stiles reaches Derek, he leans both palms on the smooth top of the bar as he sways forward, rocking on his feet. 

"Hey," he says, grinning impishly at Derek. "Sorry about that ..." 

He trails off a little uncertainly, looking in question at Derek with his eyebrows raised. 

"Derek."

"Derek," Stiles repeats slowly, rolling the word on his tongue, smiling as he sounds it out. "Sorry to keep you waiting." 

"Is she going to be alright?" Derek asks, tipping his head towards the area that Erica had disappeared into. 

"Yeah, she'll be fine," Stiles sighs. "She has epilepsy, she's not normally triggered by photosensitivity but it doesn't hurt to be safe, right? _Hence_ , the rules."

Stiles waves a hand over to the pinboard where notices and rules are neatly arranged with black pins before he glances back at Derek's dubious expression. 

Stiles rolls his eyes affably, "I know, why work in a club if you've got epilepsy? But Erica's mostly in it for the dancing, so we take the necessary precautions. We'd be lost without her." 

"The dancing?" 

"Yup," Stiles says as he reaches down beneath the bar and begins to fling bottles of coloured tequila and vodka before he grabs them from the air and lines them all up in front of Derek as he speaks, without missing a single beat. It's like juggling, Derek thinks, but _sexier._

"Erica's a dancer by trade," Stiles is saying, "but she didn't really want to go pro, all the stress and shit money y'know, so here we are. She's the one who sorts out all of our routines and stuff." 

"That _was_ some very impressive dancing," Derek says, absently eyeing the way that Stiles begins to make up his drink. 

What Derek really appreciates about this bar is how the skill of the bartenders is not overly flamboyant or overcrowded with flair.  

It's not tacky like how he's seen in other bars, primarily the ones that Jackson takes him to, which says a lot about his best friend's tastes actually, where the bartenders try too hard to look cool. Here, the bartenders' expertise and the seamlessness in which they work is what really makes it a sight to behold, they have no use for redundant eccentricities, everything is done with a specific purpose. 

Stiles turns around and heads for the freezer cabinet set into the wall. Derek finds his head turning sideways to better gaze at Stiles' ass as he leans in to grab a bucket of ice, the leather stretches tight over the smooth curve of his butt and thighs and Derek has to bite his lip to stop a moan falling from his lips. 

It's his inebriated state, he knows, that makes him act like this, so embarrassingly wanton. If he were sober, he'd much better be able to handle the way that Stiles' back is displayed as he reaches up to grab a glass from the shelves above, he's sure of it. 

Stiles grins as he walks back, "Thanks man, I mean yeah, the dancing aspect was one of the things that really sold our investor on the club." Stiles quirks a brow and laughs a little, "Well that and the fact that he's Lydia dad." 

Derek nods along to Stiles like he's actually listening to the words instead lingering of the slight lilt of Stiles' voice, letting the tone wash over him like a balm, and then the words finally sink in and he stops, gaze skittering towards Stiles.

"Anton Martin is Lydia's dad?" Derek asks, "She's Lydia _Martin_?" 

Stiles looks a little surprised, mouth dropping open a little bit but his hands don't stop their activities, one hand twisting the top off of a bottle and the other rolling a bottle of campari between his fingers. 

"Uh, yeah," Stiles says. "You a fan of Mr Martin or something?" 

"Not personally," Derek replies. "But I have a friend who's kind of in love with his work ethic." 

Jackson's going to freak the fuck out.

Derek doesn't know how he could have missed the fact that Lydia is Anton's daughter, Jackson is usually very thorough in his research of business. But, _oh man_ , Derek is going to have so much fun with this.

He's thinking of a dozen different scenarios in which he'll casually let slip that nugget of information, which will simultaneously make Derek sound effortlessly cool and Jackson feel woefully inadequate as a fan, when Lydia comes back in and taps Stiles gently on the elbow. 

"Erica still wants to do her second performance," Lydia says, her eyes flicker to Derek and she smiles before she turns her attention back to Stiles. "What do you think?" 

"Is she up for it?" Stiles asks, but he doesn't look at her, concentrating as he douses the bottom of the shaker with a shallow coating of the campari. 

"She says she is." 

Stiles lifts an eyebrow, switches bottles with a practiced hand and turns to the side a little to look at Lydia, "Yes, but _is_ she?" 

"She's fine, Stiles," Lydia says and she leans over him and adjusts the angle of Stiles' hand as he adds a layer of clear vermouth. "But if you don't want her to dance ..." 

"It's not that I don't want her to dance," Stiles sighs, pursing his lips a little as he glances down at his wristwatch and he thinks; Derek's actually kind of glad he's been drinking, helps to stave off the raging hard-on he would have just at the sight of the guy's mouth.

"Fine," Stiles eventually concedes. "Okay, tell her I said okay." 

Lydia nods once and disappears just as Stiles grabs a glass pestle and mortar from beneath the bar, re-emerging with a handful of green leaves. 

"Mint," he clarifies as he puts them in dish adds two cubes of ice and begins to grind them together and Derek is riveted to the sight of Stiles' long, deft fingers wrapped around the handle, sliding up and down with the momentum. 

Stiles is blissfully unaware of the fervour that he instils in Derek and he carries on chatting regardless, trying to sound casual, "Erica has another performance in about twenty minutes or so if you're hanging around." 

Derek smiles, slow and lazy, he's pretty sure that Stiles is flirting with him, wondering if he's going to have another chance to speak to him, but he can't be certain with his gaze fixed solely on Stiles' hands as they are. 

"Yeah," Derek says, letting his gaze flickers up for a brief second, meeting Stiles' brown eyes, before they attempt to follow the quick motions of Stiles working the bar in front of him. 

He's so intent on watching the concentration on Stiles' face as he works that he jumps when Jackson crashes into him. 

"Gonna buy me a drink before you take me home?" He slurs in Derek's ear, his breath curling around Derek's ear.

Jackson's not _that_ drunk, Derek knows, and even if he were Jackson can hold his liquor well enough that he doesn't turn into a slurring mess, which means that he's acting like this on purpose, in order to embarrass him. 

Derek glowers at his friend, but Jackson looks completely unaffected, he slaps Derek's ass and says "I'll be waiting by our table, big guy," and he slinks off into the crowd. 

When Derek turns back, Stiles is studiously concentrating on his work, twirling the shaker between his fingers with one had whilst the other garnishes Derek's glass.

"Looks like I'll be adding another drink to the tab," Derek sighs. 

Stiles throws the shaker into his other hand and begins to unscrew the top, "You're with that guy?" 

Derek presses his lips together and raises his eyebrows, muttering, "Unfortunately." 

Stiles throws him a curious look, opens his mouth to say something but seemingly thinks better of it and pours the mixed liquor over the ice in Derek's glass instead. 

"His name is Jackson," Derek says, eyeing the drink, the vibrant red fades from the bottom up to a pale swirl that looks almost transluscent in the soft overhead lights, the minted ice clusters that float through the liquid look almost electric blue. "He's my idiot of a best friend." 

"Oh," Stiles exclaims and he pauses right in the middle of sliding Derek's glass across as he stares at him. "He's your _best friend_. I thought- I mean I saw you two, _earlier_ I mean." 

Derek narrows his eyes, reaches his hand to slowly tug the glass from Stiles' hand. "You saw?" 

Stiles blushes, "I mean yeah, I might have caught a glimpse or, y’know, _five_ , it’s not like the two of you are particularly unnoticeable, and besides, I saw _you_ looking too."

"Hard not to," Derek says, bringing the glass to his mouth. The drink _is_ strong, the mint burning fresh down his throat amidst the heat of the alcohol, it's sharp and powerful and it fills his lungs with warmth.

Stiles smiles at Derek, shakes his head in an attempt to clear the blush from him cheeks before he turns around and points to the curly-haired bartender down the bar.

“That’s my best friend,” Stiles says. “Scott.”

Derek looks over just in time to see Scott trip over his own feet and fumble with the glass bottle in his hand before he expertly catches it with the base of his palm, saving it from splintering all over the counter. He blushes and grins sheepishly at the woman in front of him as apologies tumble from his lips.

“Yeah. That’s Scott,” Stiles sighs and looks back over to Derek, squinting at him. “He grows on you.”

“So does Jackson,” Derek says, bringing his drink to his lips before he mutters darkly, "But he’s like a fungus so …”

Stiles laughs at that, it’s loud and startlingly refreshing amidst the heat of the club. Derek finds himself grinning back before he’s even conscious of it.

“So what will it be, the same as yours or another one of our specials?”

Stiles does end up making Jackson a different drink, it's overtly complicated and very flashy, the liquid personification of Jackson, Derek thinks.

“It’s called the _Kanima_ ,” Stiles tells him as he pours crushed ice over the lemon and lime slices at the bottom of the glass. “Lydia created it. Actually, Lydia creates all of our specialties. She has an eye for it.”

“So, what? You all have a specific job here then?” Derek asks, his hands following the movement of Stiles wrists as he drenches the glass in white vermouth.

“You could say that,” Stiles smiles. “Erica does the dancing, Lydia does the drinks. Allison is the reason why I have to wear uncomfortable leather pants,” Stiles grouches, pinching the material between his fingers before he grabs the whiskey. “Boyd and Scott are why we’re pretty good at the actual bartending side of things.”

“What about you?” Derek asks.

Stiles carefully pours the amber liquid on top of the drink and watches as it sinks down through the glass, curling over the crushed ice before he slides it over the counter.

“I’m the boss,” Stiles says finally, shrugging. “I keep everyone in check.”

Derek would like him some of that, he thinks and then he wants to punch himself in the face because, “I said that out loud, didn’t I?”

“Yep,” Stiles nods and laughs as he ducks his head, Derek spies the rose blush flooding Stiles’ cheeks and he sighs.

Stiles smiles a little and gestures at the two drinks sitting in front of Derek. “Anything else?”

Derek asks for a bottle of water, because he knows by this point Isaac will be slumped over in a daze somewhere, and he’s just about to turn away and leave, internally cursing himself for not grasping an opportunity when it’s handed to him on a silver platter, when Stiles’ voice reaches him.

“Listen, Derek,” Stiles says, leaning forward over the bar. He looks a little awkward but he’s powering through it with a smile, “I have a break in about twenty minutes. Just after Erica’s performance and I was wondering if ...”

The blush in Stiles’ cheeks is now a raging red and he’s palming the back of his neck like it will help him find the words he’s looking for, it’s stupidly endearing, Derek thinks.

“I mean, we’re in club, y’know?” Stiles continues, looking anywhere but Derek. “… clubbing.”

He takes a deep breath and he squints towards Derek, finding the courage from somewhere deep in his chest, “Would you like to dance? With me?”

Derek can’t say yes fast enough, he’s nodding before the last syllable fades on Stiles’ lips but it’s all worth it for the way that Stiles grins at him in return.

“I’ll be in the VIP section,” Derek tells him, feeling gauche the way he’s standing there with a water bottle tucked under his arm and two glasses in his hands, grinning foolishly at the bartender, but he doesn’t particularly care. “Come find me and, and I’ll be there.”

Derek walks away with his heart in his throat and expectation bubbling warm and solid in his belly, he tries not to preen too much when he hears Stiles’ frantic, “ _Boyd,_ I need you to switch breaks with me, it’s an emergency and I’m your boss, so you have to do it!”

-

By the time that Derek makes his careful way back over to the VIP section, he slips past the bouncer easily and finds Isaac, Jackson and Cora sitting at the table, he's feeling pretty smug and warmly hopeful. 

He wants to hold his fists to his chest and squirm all over he's so happy, hell; he'll probably even fist bump Jackson if he wants because he's going to be dancing with Stiles later, and nothing could possibly ruin his mood.

So he makes his careful way, mindful of not spilling the two glasses in his hand or the bottle of water tucked beneath his arm.

[Nina ](http://www.thesartorialist.com/photos/on-the-street-endell-st-london-3/)and Laura are nowhere to be found, but Jackson sits on an armchair deep in conversation with Cora who’s perching on the arm of the sofa to his left, idly massaging Isaac’s flop of curls where they nestle in her lap.

Derek places Jackson's glass in front of him before he slides into the seat next to Isaac. 

"What's with the face?" Jackson demands as he leans forward in the armchair to grab his glass. "You look like you've just stolen a starving child's Christmas dinner." 

"What?" Derek blinks at him, has long given up on attempting any understanding of Jackson's analogies, so he merely looks towards Cora for an answer. 

"You're smiling, Derek," she laughs, glassy-eyed and happy. 

Derek hates Jackson sometimes. Most times; he hates him most times.

"Did you score with the hot bartender?" Isaac slurs from beside him.

Derek doesn’t even respond, simply grabs him by the scruff of his tee and pulls him upright before he uncaps the water bottle and pours the liquid down his throat, and Derek just knows that he’s going to have a hell of a hangover when he wakes up the next morning.

“You doing okay?” Derek asks him, taking in his flushed cheeks and his hazy eyes. Isaac nods sluggishly before he points towards Derek’s glass.

He pounces on it, mumbling, “Hair of the dog, Der,” before chugging a quarter of it.

He’s clearly not expecting the burn of it, going by the way that his face contorts, and he ends up licking the top of his mouth like a dog with peanut butter as Cora looks on with disgusted fondness.

Derek takes his drink back as Jackson says, “You totally scored with the hot bartender didn’t you?”

“Might have done,” Derek hedges, taking a careful sip of his drink.

“Atta boy!” Jackson shouts and he puts his hand up for a high five. Derek rolls his eyes but he can’t quite help the smile on his face.

The minutes go by fast, punctuated by Jackson’s knowing looks as well as the slurred conversation he has with Isaac, about _werewolves_ of all things.

The bar has been roped off with the purple cords and Lydia climbs up on to the polished bar to address the whole club.

Jackson sits up in his armchair and avidly watches as the girl gesticulates and practically drips with sophistication. Derek’s not that drunk anymore, so he can now clearly understand her as she informs that orders will not be taken until after the performance is over but there is ten minute window left to get drinks.

When she finally steps back down, Jackson turns wide, glassy eyes towards Derek.

“I think I’m in love,” he says, eyes drifting back to where Lydia is busying herself behind the bar, directing her helpers on setting up the long rubber mat that runs the length of the bar.

Derek rolls his eyes; Jackson falls in love with his every new conquest. But he has to admit that Jackson chose wisely this time, Lydia is far different from Jackson’s usual girls, that is, she’s neither fickle nor annoying.

“Oh, Lydia?” Derek comments casually, looking over at Jackson’s face.

“You know her?”

“I know of her.”

“She’s really, _really_ hot,” Jackson sighs and he looks almost wistful, it’s seriously creeping Derek out.

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, but he has a golden opportunity and he’s not willing to waste it, so he sniffs casually before he divulges, “You know she’s the owner, right?”

Evidently, Jackson does not, given the way that his mouth drops open. “ _She’s_ the owner?”

“I thought you knew things about this club.”

“I was reading the article over Cora’s shoulder,” Jackson mutters defensively. “You know what those tablets do to my eyes.”

Derek knows.

 It’s hilarious.

They both turn their gazes back to Lydia, they can see the bar more clearly now that there are less people in the VIP section, so they have an unperturbed view of things. Lydia is standing over by the west side, tongue trapped between her teeth, smiling in reply to Boyd’s conversation as she pulls a pint of beer.

“Guess what her name is,” Derek says, grabbing a fistful of Isaac’s shirt to pull him away from where he’s kissing Cora.

“Lydia.”

Derek rolls his eyes, reminds himself that Jackson is actually a very successful businessman and not at all as stupid as he looks, “Her surname, dumbass.”

“I don’t know, _Derek_ ," he gripes. "Why don't you enlighten me?"

Derek smirks, “Martin.”

He has to curb the urge to laugh in Jackson’s face for the way that his eyes bug out of his head, “Shut the _fuck_ up.”

“I’m not even kidding,” Derek shrugs.

Jackson instantly downs his whole entire glass of alcohol, looking strangely determined. “I’m going to ask her out.”

“Okay," Derek laughs. "Okay but just wait until after the performance, then you can go,” Derek grabs a napkin from the holder in the centre of the table and begins to dab at the three different lipstick stains on the corner of his mouth, because he’s pretty sure Jackson isn’t going to score _anybody_ whilst looking as promiscuous as he does. 

-

It turns out that Erica’s performance is a duet with Stiles’ best friend, Scott. They’ve both changed, Scott is shirtless, to the excitement of a lot of patrons, and in trousers cuffed just beneath the knee.

Erica has changed into [a gold and silver number](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mapvoadEdD1qzoaqio1_500.jpg) with shimmering tassels hanging over her long legs and has re-applied her make-up, she looks fine but Derek doesn’t miss the way that Stiles hovers worriedly as he leans on the workspace behind them.

Both Erica and Scott are barefooted, standing close together and grin as they speak into the microphone.

The [music](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NrFQRn2yYWs) starts again with a wave of Erica’s hand; she throws a reassuring look at Stiles over her shoulder before she and Scott begin to move into position.

This dance is just as choreographed as the last one, but there’s something innately different about it, Derek isn’t even complaining about the lack of Stiles in it because there’s a synchronised symmetry, between Scott and Erica as they move, that makes it hard to look away from.

This particular performance is a lot more seductive than the previous one and the music is loud and pierced with electronic harmonies that zing throughout the entire room as Scott and Erica stand opposite each other moving together like two pieces of a puzzle.

Scott ducks and slides on the bar and between the vee of Erica’s legs as she bounds over him, blonde curls blurring over the darkness of his trousers as she plants her hands at either side of his legs, sitting on his back for a beat as he simultaneously bends backwards.

She’s off of him with a roll of her hips and he’s leaping upwards with an acrobatic skill set that make his muscles ripple and the crowd yell with delight.

They constantly shift between separate dance moves that exist exclusively of each other and movements that entwine them close together, winding through the air like ink.

They end up on their hands and knees, grinning as they face each other, before Erica ducks her head and Scott rolls over her back, landing neatly on the other side and standing.

He turns and presses a foot into the arch of Erica’s back as she surges up, making her fall gracefully back on the bar, her body a smooth undulating wave. There’s barely a beat before Scott is taking a few careful steps forward, jumping straight into a handstand before he blankets her body in the same smooth movement.

They rise up together, her curls tumbling over themselves as she arches back with him, hands flat on the bar and lashes dipped low to her cheeks as their audience cheer. When Derek looks to his right, he finds that even Jackson is riveted on the sight.

Stiles is still leaning against the back counter, though he looks more relaxed about Erica’s state of health, and more than a little proud at his friends’ dancing prowess.

Scott and Erica’s movements are a little more than blurs now, curling around each other, wrapping around each other, a grin on Erica’s face and concentration on Scott’s.

Erica kneels on the bar and places a delicate ankle in Scott’s hand as he rolls her into doing the splits, and then they’re all hard synchronicity and extended limbs and wild hair as they move in time to the beat of the song.

When the rhythm changes to the merely the keyboard and the rattle of the percussions and the vocals, Scott is kneeling on the mat and Erica drops down on to her knees beside him, mirroring his position.

_I’ve been up in the air, is this the end I feel?_

She sways sideways and knocks into his shoulder and re-enacts the movement a split-second later only this time she shifts forward by a mere inch and sways softly over his knees, their right arms sweeping the surface of the bar and curling up into her chest.

They move in soft ripples, and the audience is entranced, their performance shifting to that of the arching arms and pointed toes, smooth precision factored into every action, working slowly to a standing position.

_Chasing a dream, chasing a dream._

Their steps are timed perfectly so that they jump up in the air and drop flat to the bar with identical, precise poses, their heads tucked into the crook of their elbows and their legs splayed just so, at the exact second that the beat kicks in once again.

The crowd roar their approval, brandishing their alcohol above their heads and the two performers are a flurry of activity, Scott grabs a hold of Erica’s hips and lifts her high in the air, and she drops her head back and spread her arms to the side as she curves over his head.

In another moment, Scott hurtles through the air with a preternatural skill and lands in a trim crouch on the other side of Erica and she grins as he stands up, she steps towards him and jumps, her chest colliding with his and she snaps her hips towards the crowd, the metallic tassels of her dress twisting in the air.

She’s spinning into Scott as the last bars of the song sound out through the club and they link their hands as they shift on the bar, for one final time, Erica circling in Scott’s arms before she lands in a smooth dip over his knee. 

-

The performance surges a huge wave of the crowd flooding into the dancefloor, absorbing the adrenaline fuel of the previous act, but Stiles appears in Derek’s section not five minutes later.

Derek catches sight of him as he talks idly to the bouncer standing guard by the rope, with a hand on the man’s shoulder and a smile on his face.

Jackson polishes off Derek’s drink and stands up after Derek, keeping close to his shoulder as they move towards the main area.

“I’m going now. I’m going to ask her now,” he looks nervous, and that’s something that Derek seldom sees in his friends face. “How do I look?”

Derek appraises his friend, his eyes still look a little glazed due to his liquid confidence but at least he’s free of the lipstick smudges on his face, Derek smoothes his hands over Jackson’s shoulders, evening out the material, before he taps him twice on the chest, “Go get her tiger.”

Jackson walks away with determination in his face and terror in his gait, he walks past a bemused Stiles who promptly looks at Derek in curiosity.

“He looks like he’s going to war,” Stiles remarks as they watch Jackson weave through the crowd.

“He’s going to ask Lydia out on a date.”

Stiles sucks in a sharp breath between his teeth, his hands deep in his pockets as he rocks on the balls of his feet, “He’s going to get rejected.”

“I know.”

“Derek, she rejects like twenty advances an hour.”

Derek clucks his tongue, shrugs his shoulders as he looks towards Stiles, “He’s nothing if not persevering.”

Stiles laughs and shakes his head before he reaches out a hand, takes a deep breath and links it with Derek’s, “Ready?”

Stiles leads them with a decided expertise in parting the crowd in front of them, they reach the middle of the dancefloor just as the song that's playing blares its final notes over the speakers and it's undertaken by a newer, heavier twang.

“I love [this song](http://ohmycumberlord.tumblr.com/post/73764570900/lanadelwonderful-lana-del-rey-boarding-school),” Stiles exclaims, turning around to grin at Derek and yell over the music as he passes their linked hands over his head and settles it at the dip in his waist, his own arm settled across his stomach. “You know it?”

Derek nods, he can't really do much more than that when his whole self is merely dedicated to how he can feel the heat of Stiles seeping through his cotton tee, spreading over their interlinked hands, and how he can feel the shift of Stiles' muscles beneath his fingertips as they begin to sway to the easy beat of the song.

Stiles crowds in tight and close to Derek’s chest, disentangling his fingers from Derek so that he can lift his hands to wrap around the bulge of Derek’s bicep and the back of his neck, flushed hot in the confines of the club; he leans his head back on Derek’s shoulder and closes his eyes, mouth hanging open and languid in a smile.

Derek moves his hands to creep just under the hem of Stiles’ shirt and wrap around his hipbones, fingers digging into the soft, warm give of the skin. Derek can feel every minute motion of muscle beneath Stiles’ skin, they’re pressed so close together, Stiles’ ass pressed into Derek’s crotch as they swing their hips in the same liquid rhythm: left, left; swing right, right. Over and over again until the movement consumes them, becomes a part of them: Stiles and Derek, moving in that same easy way.

Stiles begins to whisper the lyrics of the song, the words curling around the both of them even as his voice loses itself in the conjunctive swarm of noise from the dancefloor. 

His shoulder blades shift and press against Derek's chest as they roll their hips and Stiles turns his head, pressing his lips into the stubbled hollow of Derek’s cheek.

“ _If you wanna get high with me,_ ” he sings, grinning as his breath billows out onto Derek's skin _. “I’m in the back doing crack, drinking p-p-Pepsi.”_

Derek hums, low and tempting, into his ear when the song swings into the chorus, nudging at Stiles’ temple as one of his hands moves up further to splay, warm and wide, over Stiles' stomach. 

Like this Derek can feel the regular shifting and contraction of Stiles’ stomach as they move within their easy cadence, he can feel the song wind its way slowly, slowly over Stiles skin, can feel the vibrations singing through him, slicking his skin with perspiration, can feel the skill ingrained into Stiles' bones. 

Derek closes his eyes and he sways with the music, guided only by the solid presence of Stiles in front of him and the heavy strum of the song.

Derek’s always loved Lana del Rey, the contrast between the way that her low, languid bass-toned susurrations creep along his spine like lava and the way that her falsettos clang against the surface of his skin always makes him feel like he’s floating high above the earth.

So Derek leans in close to Stiles’ ear, lips dragging across Stiles’ earlobe, and he thinks to modify the lyrics just a little.

 _“But you've got a great ass,”_ he murmurs, smiling when Stiles shivers against him. _“And you know how to show it.”_

Stiles trails his hand down Derek’s arm to layer over the hand splayed on his stomach and he fits his fingers between the spaces, grasping tight as he rotates his hips and turns around in Derek’s grasp, fitting their clasped hands in the small of his back as he rocks forward into Derek.

When Derek slips his thigh between Stiles' legs, Stiles sighs and he wraps a hand around Derek's upper arm, curling the other around the broad expanse of his shoulder and tucking his face into the crook beneath Derek's jaw. He presses his warm lips to Derek's throat and pants into his skin. 

Derek can feel Stiles harden against him, and feels his own cock filling inside the confines of his jeans, itching to meet. This new angle puts their erections closer together, material scraping together and creating frissons of friction goodness that spark across Derek's skin like livewires. 

_If you wanna do that south beach swing, If you wanna go group vacationing._

When the song falls into the instrumental segment, Derek runs the palm of his hands up the line of Stiles back, feeling the muscles and cartilage pull taught and relax in time with the way that Stiles curves his spine, and then Derek drags his hands back down, feeling the slender power behind his physique; he runs his palms down low to the base of Stiles' spine and he digs the heels of them into the soft swell of Stiles' ass.

And then finally, _finally_ , he extends his fingers out before he curls them around the tight muscle of his ass and pulls Stiles all the more closer to him. 

They're not really dancing so much as grinding together now, hard waves crashing against each other right there in the middle of the dance floor, still with their easy rhythm: left, left; swing right, right. 

It's like Derek's awareness narrows down to where he and Stiles are entwined, nothing else matters. He doesn't even take notice of the club-goers around them dancing and whooping along to the song, occasionally bumping into each other in their drunken eagerness. 

There's just them, in this little bubble of artificial reality and that's all that matters. 

Stiles lifts his head and slides his fingers into Derek's hair just as the tempo shifts down. They press their foreheads together; eyes locked on each other as their rhythm becomes slower, tighter, so much more intimate. 

_Three, four._

_When they said prolific, they weren’t kidding._

Stiles smells like mint and cherries and dry vermouth, and Derek wants to chase that smell, bottle it up so that he can remember this shared movement between them.

He sees so many small details tucked this close to the other man, he sees how Stiles' long eyelashes cast shadows into the golden colour of his eyes, pupils wide and dark, he spies the softest sheen of perspiration above his top lip, he can see the dusting of stubble along his pale skin. 

Derek wants to kiss him, to taste the sweat on his skin, to feel that stubble rasp against his tongue, he wants to redden his lips even further with the bite of his own teeth. 

Stiles smiles then, like he can see the lust pooling in Derek's eyes; he grasps a tight fistful of Derek's hair and presses their foreheads together, hard, like if he presses enough they'll never have to let go. 

Derek shifts one arm to curl around Stiles' back, the other pressing into the side of his ribs and they smile at each other, light and promising even through the heady pants of their breaths, as the final chorus trembles through the air. 

 _"Everyone from home says that you're so cool,"_ Stiles closes his eyes and Derek can feel each word as it makes an impression of curling air against his lips. _"Come on, everybody to the boarding school."_

He drags his fingertips through Derek's hair even as the curl of his own lashes dip low to his flushed cheek. 

He opens his eyes when the song ends and grins at Derek, laughing a little as he presses a kiss to the side of Derek's mouth. 

[The next song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s6Y2FVD5JVw) comes crashing into the club, the heavy drum set reverberates around the four dark walls and the steady jitters of the cymbals makes Derek's skin vibrate as the heavy riff resounds over the atmosphere.

Stiles pushes away from Derek as soon as he recognises the song and he turns on the spot, trying to orientate himself, before he grabs Derek and turns him to face the east wall; there on the wide, smooth expanse of wall, beyond the sea of bodies between them and the wall, he can see moving pictures flickering across it, beamed by an overhead projector.

"The music video,” Stiles explains in Derek’s ear, he’s standing at Derek’s side, his body moving along to the rhythm of the song almost subconsciously. “It was Danny’s idea to have some shown; for variety y’know? But only the really awesome ones, obviously.”

Derek’s not interested in the video though, his entire attention being monopolised by Stiles’ shifting slowly next to him, positively beaming as his eyes, gold and dark, flicker from side to side whilst he tracks the moving images in front of him.

Before he even notices that he’s moving, Derek is wrapping an arm around Stiles and curling him into his body. There’s not even a second of hesitation on Stiles’ part, he moves so that his entire front is warmed by Derek’s chest, fits his hands on Derek’s waist and pulls him in closer.

Their heads are tucked close as they move; Derek doesn’t even have to think about it, his body easily following the movement of Stiles’ own, seeking to keep that warmth near, their hips pressed tight together as they are. 

Stiles tips his head back, smiling at nothing in particular, exposing the long line of his throat: pale and smooth, the ridges of his trachea like soft ripples on the surface of his skin. Derek presses his nose there, trailing his lips over the length of it until he’s nosing at the hollow behind Stiles’ ear.

Stiles turns his head a little, so that their noses fit together side by side, and he looks at Derek with lust and seriousness and a kind of intensity that seems like way too much for two people who have only just met.

But there’s something about this, about the way that they move with each other that seems intimate and familiar; and Derek will take all of it, this feeling, this _thing_ between them even if it’s just for one night, because it’s a whole lot better than what he’s been feeling the last couple of months.

Stiles shifts his gaze to Derek’s lips, he’s so close that Derek can taste his air, their exhalations mingling in the scant amount of space between them.

 _“Your brother’s just sat there, you said he felt snide,”_ Stiles sings, his lips catching like soft brushes against Derek’s mouth. _“You hope that that boy will be alright.”_  

Derek kisses him when Stiles opens his mouth to sing another line, and he swallows his intake of air and the soft sound of surprise he emits a split second before he melts into Derek’s touch. It’s just lips at first, supple collisions of skin on skin before Stiles licks the corner of Derek’s mouth.

Derek flexes his hands on Stiles hips and he feels the trail of blazing heat travelling up his torso as Stiles drags his hands from his waist to curl around his neck.

They’re not even moving anymore, two winding figurines of limbs and lips in the middle of a crowded dancefloor, the music blaring gentle harmonies over hard guitar riffs overhead; tranquil in the middle of the swarming crowd.

Stiles slinks his fingers through Derek’s hair, pulls him closer as he gasps in to the kiss, his other hand wrapped firmly around Derek’s shoulders and Derek can feels each individual fingertip slowly curling into the thin material of his tee. He tips his head to the side, his tongue weaving with Stiles’, both of them unmindful of everything going on around them.

Stiles hunches his shoulders and he cradles Derek’s face, kissing him deeply and tasting like cherries and mint and Derek can’t get enough of it.

They kiss and they kiss and they _kiss,_ until the music fades out and another one begins again.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so the outfits, I took from the live version of In the Night Sky by After School Red, the song is Korean (which I decidedly do not speak) nor am I particularly into K-Pop but this is kinda good, and the outfits are pretty :) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xaxi6cm-J5g - I visualised Erica in the pink, Lydia in the blue and Allison in the gold.  
> The outfit that Erica changes into is Atelier Versace 2013.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Vas Happening?! Here's another chapter for you guys, I'm really sorry it's been super long but my life has been intense lately, like the most intense of all the intense. Also, holy shit - results day on Thursday and I'm a freaking the fuck out, like this is the make or break you guys: this time next week I'll know whether I'm going to Cambridge or St Andrews (so freaking nerve-wracking!) But I'm dealing with it ... um kinda? Mostly I'm just ignoring it and eating Oreos but don't mind me! :)  
> So first things first, I totally forgot (again!) to link in the inspiration video for Scott and Erica's dance from the last chapter. It was 'Did it Again' by Shakira (honestly the video is super wow ok? Just wow.)  
> Also, I don't know if you guys know this but I'm English, so I don't really know the music that I will be linking in the next few chapters will be things you're all familiar with ... but then it'll give you insight to the British charts eh? Or else, you can just judge me on my music taste! :)  
> We get introduced to one new character (technically two but you don't see the other one yet) and I'll be explaining all sorts of things about this character in the ending notes if you wanna check that out - hope you enjoy! :)

Derek is leaning back into the wall, behind where he's sitting with Isaac, in the corner table of their favourite coffee shop three weeks later, and nursing one hell of a hangover, when Jackson decides to wander in. 

Dona Maria is standing over by the shiny glass counter that runs half the length of the far wall to Derek's right, presiding over her café like a Queen presiding over her kingdom, all the while throwing Derek long, concerned looks with her hand clutched _dramatically_ over her chest. 

The coffee shop, DICA's, with its pale stone tiles and flaxen coloured walls is the very same one that he and Jackson had stumbled into when they first moved into their apartment in their second year of college. 

Dona Maria, with her dark African skin and throaty Portuguese brogue was partly the reason that they kept frequenting it, despite the fact that neither of them live near it anymore. 

The drive over to the café is completely worth the effort though, both for the coffee and for the patrons, and the atmosphere found in the cafe is something that Derek physically _craves_.

DICA's is not like other coffee shops in the city, there's not an over abundance of dark wood surfaces and earthy tones and weird music that Derek's never even heard of.

Instead DICA's is light and airy; with big floor-to ceiling windows covering the entire north face of the café, allowing the light to trickle over the polished marble-topped tables and the pale gold armchairs that encircle each one.

It has light wicker baskets holding sachets of sugar over by the service counter, glass shelves, and glass jars full of coffee beans and coloured sweets, all accompanied by [Edith Piaf](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1zFc7nIJnvo), et al, playing softly in the background.

That's not to mention the artwork that Dom Alberto, the other patron of the café, puts up on the walls: beautiful prints of the social realist scene of Portugal and Cape Verde, works by Martinho Dias and Kiki Lima and so many others.

Prints that Derek himself helped choose because Dom Alberto insisted that his expertise as an Art History student was more than enough for him.

So Derek has always willingly obliged, taking payment in coffee and the times that Dom Alberto sits with Derek and strokes his white-peppered goatee as he regales him with tales of his home country with a smile on his face and a twinkle in his dark eyes. 

These discussions have more than saved Derek's ass a few times in his student years, making him wholly grateful for the time that Jackson had drunkenly walked into the glass door, that had been propped open for a late night clean by Dona Maria, all those years ago.

Though today, Derek isn't looking his best to be fair. It's nine in the morning of a bleary, wet September Wednesday and he'd been out the night before with some of the guys and girls from his class. 

It was a pretty decent night it has to be said, they had basically holed up in the bar near campus, ordering food and drinking the entire liquor cabinet, but Derek was now feeling the after effects. 

Isaac had all but dragged him to the café from the loft at the crack of dawn and Derek had hated and grumbled every single step of the way, but that did little to stop him from crashing into the door of DICA's and rushing up to Dona Maria, practically begging for her strong, caffeine fuelled Portuguese brew. 

Derek guesses that his exhaustion must have been showing more than he thought because Dona Maria has continually bustled over to the table, with her long raven-coloured braids piled high atop her head, to worriedly cluck over the both of them, and wordlessly supply Derek with coffee.

Now, three coffees later, Derek is going over the rough draft of his thesis by hand, with bags under his eyes and the after taste of bitter coffee smarting his tongue, whilst Isaac sits opposite him, looking fresh as a fucking daisy, happily typing away at his laptop and pausing only to push the thin frames of his reading glasses further up the bridge his nose. 

Derek wants to _hiss_ at him. 

Isaac has always been unbelievably chipper in the morning, whilst Derek usually falls straight out of his bed with a bleary moan, fights his way past the tangle of sheets clutching to him with an incoherent, angry mumble before he blindly follows the scent of fresh caffeine like a lethargic zombie. 

It’s a miracle that he actually managed to make it to the café this morning without dying to be honest.

Jackson walks in to the café with his customary shades and a dark scarf looped around his neck, although Derek has to admit that he's looking more dapper than his usual douchey self, [wearing](http://london.onerepresents.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/02/ShortList_Mykonos21.jpg) a fitted dark suede blazer over a black cotton turtleneck and grey slacks as well as a neat grey trilby hat to match. 

He nods at Derek when he walks in, pausing to wipe his feet on the welcome mat placed just inside the doorway before continuing, because if there's anything Dona Maria really doesn't like it is the stone tiles of her establishment being muddied by careless customers. 

Jackson wacks his brother atop his head in greeting and watches with a smirk as Isaac jumps in surprise, he hadn't even noticed Jackson walk in, but he automatically, almost absently, carries out a retaliating thump against Jackson's belly. 

Derek rolls his eyes at their juvenile greeting and promptly gives up on the hope that they will ever grow out of their pre-pubescent days as he watches Jackson smoothly curve around Isaac's chair and effectively deflect the intended jab. 

Derek can't help but smile however, when Jackson drops a white paper doughnut bag from the patisserie down the road in front of his brother's line of vision. 

Isaac instantly abandons his work in order to leap for the bag in front of him, hardly before the paper bottom even hits the table, and he hums happily, rifling through the contents to find the plain custard ones he likes so much, before he hands the bag over to Derek.

Technically, they're not actually supposed to bring in anything from outside DICA's into the shop (unless you want to be faced with Dona Maria's angry face coupled with Dom Alberto's disappointed sigh, a double-whammy of instant regret, Derek assures you) but there's always been an exception for the Hales and the Whittemores; partly because of the intense affection between Dona Maria and Jackson. 

Derek watches now as Jackson approaches the counter, respectfully ridding himself of his grey trilby hat before coughing politely, Dona Maria turns around and her entire face practically lights up. 

She grasps his face between her hands and places an exuberant kiss on each of his cheeks as he smiles bashfully at her.

It always takes Derek aback, seeing the pure and unadulterated affection Jackson has for the woman, the way that his entire expression just softens.

It’s something that Derek doesn’t see often, seeing as its _Jackson_ , and it always makes him feel proud for his friend’s ability to actually display emotional maturity. Especially in times like this, when Jackson hasn’t been to the café for a while and chats to her, easy and sweet, as he orders.

Of course the moment is ruined, as it usually is, when Jackson returns to the table, with his habitual sycophantic expression. He slinks into one of the chairs between Derek and Isaac, drops his briefcase and his hat under the table and proceeds to stare at Derek.

Derek valiantly tries to ignore the heavy weight of Jackson’s gaze burning the side of his face as he proofs the page in front of him.

It’s when he reads the same sentence three times, and manages to not understand a single word of it, that Derek huffs a rough sigh and rolls his neck to look over at his best friend.

“ _What_?” Derek grouches, glaring at the smarmy grin on Jackson’s face.

“We’re going out this Friday.”

“No, we’re not,” he sighs and turns back to the table, exchanging his pencil for one of the yellow highlighters scattered across the surface. “I’m busy.”

Isaac sits opposite Derek, clacking away on his laptop as he writes his essay. He doesn’t even look up as he mutters, “You’re always busy. We hardly even see you anymore.”

Jackson nods and gestures at his brother as if to say: _See, even Isaac noticed._

Derek scowls at them both but Jackson merely laughs, laying a heavy hand on Derek’s shoulder in a convoluted version of a conciliatory pat.

He leans in, a grin pulling at his lips, “You might even get _laid_ this time.”

Derek petulantly shrugs off Jackson’s hand, “Get the hell away from me.”

Across the table Isaac pauses in his typing, and looks up at Derek with shock-widened eyes.

“You _didn’t_ get laid that night?” he asks incredulously, and Derek desperately prays for a shiny, new pair of friends to replace the two in front of him. “I thought you were with that bartender. Hell, even _I_ got laid, Derek.”

Isaac’s eyes glaze over and he looks a little off to his left and he smiles, goofy and loose, as he remembers.

Derek glares at him, hardening his features and furrowing his brows.

It takes all his hard, earned discipline to keep a straight face when Isaac’s gaze flitters over Derek’s expression and the smile on his face drops instantly.

“N-not, not with Cora,” he stammers, blushing furiously under Derek’s careful eye. Derek adopts a bit more of a grumpy disposition, growling low under his breath and is rewarded by Isaac’s dawning realisation about what he just said. “I mean, I-, obviously it was with _Cora_ but-”

Jackson shoves at Derek’s shoulder, but Derek can see that he is trying hard to hide the grin on his face. “Stop, Derek. You’re scaring him with your eyebrows of _doom_.”

Derek doesn’t mind Isaac and Cora’s relationship of course, Cora’s old enough and independent enough to know exactly what she wants and Derek wouldn’t stop her even if he could. Never mind the fact that he’s known Isaac since he was a skinny dork-tastic seven year old.

Even _if_ Derek had a problem, the last two years of their relationship would have given him ample time to smooth over any resentment he had.

However, that is not to say that Derek doesn’t love teasing Isaac. It’s a dick move, sure, because Isaac falls for it each and every single time, but there is a reason for why Derek is Jackson’s best friend after all.

He smirks at Isaac, whose blushing disposition instantly turns sour with realisation and he crosses his arms tightly over his chest, “You’re an asshole.”

Derek exchanges a long look with Jackson; it’s inevitable really, with the way that Jackson’s lip quivers with repressed amusement, that they both burst into laughter whilst Isaac sinks further down into his chair, resolutely glaring at the wall behind Derek’s head.

“I hate you both,” he mutters darkly.

Dona Maria chooses that moment to appear by their table, with one of her trays loaded up with coffee for Derek and Jackson, Isaac’s hot chocolate as well as a bowl full of DICA’s specialty [_pasteis de nata_](https://www.google.co.uk/search?q=pasteis+de+nata&espv=210&es_sm=119&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ei=bAfbUsH3AtKWhQfZgIHoCA&ved=0CAkQ_AUoAQ&biw=1280&bih=705#q=pastel+de+nata&tbm=isch&imgdii=_).

Technically, the customers are supposed to move their butts and make their merry way over to the counter and collect their orders themselves when the wait staff called out but Derek, Jackson and their friends, haven’t had to do it in years.

 _God bless favouritism_ , Derek thinks.

She makes Derek get up to clear their table of their coffees and dispose of their rubbish whilst she makes Jackson make space for their mugs among their schoolwork.

She tuts, cuffing Isaac over his ear before she reprimands, “Sit up straight. Do you want to end up with a hunched back?”

By the time that Derek sits back down in his seat, Isaac is raising himself up into a more sensible posture, dragging his hot chocolate over into the cradle of his hands as he resumes his essay writing.

He picks at the fluffy pink and white marshmallows, bobbing on the surface of the drink, with the toothpick Dona Maria had mysteriously materialised from within the depths of her apron pockets.

Derek had seen many a thing emerge from those pockets over the years, a never-ending collection of domestic objects that they had all suddenly and conveniently needed, be it a straw or bottle opener or a salt shaker.

It is just as if she were Mary Poppins, or Hermione Granger.

But either way, Derek will always be suspicious of the curiously flat look of those pockets when they carry so many things.

“So, is anyone going to tell me what is happening?” Dona Maria asks, eyeing each of them in turn, Derek in particular, whilst Jackson drags himself to his full sitting height and takes the opportunity to curl an arm her waist.

“Derek’s being his usual sour self,” he primly informs her, lifting a single eyebrow and judging Derek with all his might.

“Yes? And what else?” Dona Maria snorts fondly. Derek takes a moment to be tremendously offended with the easy effortlessness with which she says it.

He’s not _that_ grumpy. He smiles, sometimes.

And besides, he only looks grumpy because of his face and what’s he going to do about that? It’s his face, his _resting_ face.

Isaac catches sight of his expression, which is decidedly offended and not pouting, _thank you Jackson_ , and he smirks like the little shit that he is.

So of course, Derek kicks him under the table. Isaac immediately retaliates and they narrow their eyes at each other.

“Is this because of that dancing boy of yours?” Dona Maria asks Derek gently, mouth rolling heavily over the vowels as her eyes fill with concern.

Derek opens his mouth to ask how in the hell she knows that before he snaps his jaw shut and swivels his gaze onto Jackson.

Jackson, who is studiously biting into a pastel from the basket and ignoring Derek’s presence with fiery determination, the picture would be complete if only he began whistling tunelessly.

“No, it’s not,” Derek says after a beat of solid silence, his grumpiness was more to do with the fact that his hangover was oozing from his brain and pulsing through his entire body in a relentless ache.

But now that he remembers Stiles he feels even worse.

It wasn’t even that he thought about him all the time, he went for days without giving a second thought to the man, but there were times like this, times where he was reminded of that night, that sparked a bubble of intense remembrance.

Derek thinks of the colour of Stiles’ eyes, the way that he moved against him, the heat of his skin and the taste of his mouth and his breath catches in his throat.

Blood pulses in his fingers, like they’re just itching to grasp that moment back, to grasp the heat of Stiles back.

He hasn’t been back to the club despite his friends asking him relentlessly, because what if he’s been remembering this all wrong?

What if his mind had donned on rose-tinted beer goggles and it turns out that Stiles is nothing like Derek remembers him being like?

Derek had brought up this very concern to Jackson a few days after their night at the club, sprawled on Jackson’s couch in their underwear drinking wine (because if they’re were going to re-live their trashy college days, they’d be drinking classy wine whilst doing so) and playing video games.

“But what if I go to kiss him again and he doesn’t taste like cherries and mint, Jackson? What if he tastes like, like _ass_?”  Derek had asked miserably, it was fair to say that they had both been more than a little drunk by this point.

Jackson had squinted at him; tipped his head to side, looking vaguely reptilian, as his creepy self was wont to do and said, “But you _like_ ass.”

Derek had levelled him with a long, long look.

“So why don’t you go find him again?” Dona Maria now asks, draping an arm around Jackson’s shoulders and tucking her wooden tray underneath her arm.

Derek hangs his head back, closes his eyes and groans, “But what if I don’t find him attractive anymore?”

Worse yet, Derek thinks, what if Stiles doesn’t find _him_ attractive anymore? What if he doesn’t even remember Derek anymore? It has been three weeks after all and Derek is pretty sure that Stiles gets hit on all the time.

He doesn’t know which would be worse, but he can’t very well say that can he?

Luckily for him, Dona Maria seems to instinctively understand what he means anyway and she sighs in sad commiseration.

She places her tray on the edge of the table, smoothes out the orange silk of her dress and tucks a thick braid back behind her ear, where it had fallen loose over her face.

“You will not know until you see him again,” she advises sagely, her accent clicking in the back of her throat. “It will be a …”

She pauses for a beat, before she clicks her fingers restlessly as the words evade her. She looks helplessly at Jackson, “ _Opportunidade perdida.”_

“Missed opportunity,” Jackson repeats back to Derek and he nods gravelly at him, shooting Dona Maria concurring glances like the suck up that he is.

“Yes, that,” she exclaims, fondly patting Jackson’s shoulder. “Thank you, dear. That _exactly_ ; if you do not do anything now,” she looks at Derek, “Then you never will, amor.”

Derek wants to narrow his eyes at her; she’s expressly manipulating him now, calling him _amor_ and smiling that sweet smile at him. Derek knows that _she_ knows that he can’t deny her anything when she breaks out the endearments.

 “ _O amor não espera por ninguém_ ,” she sighs wistfully, reverting back into Portuguese.

“Love waits for nobody,” Jackson immediately supplies.

“I _know_ what it means, Jackson,” Derek snaps, though it sounds more like playground petulancy than anything else. “It’s not like you took it any better.”

“Oh, really?” Dona Maria asks, curiosity honing her accent and she turns her sharp, speculative gaze onto Jackson.

Jackson glares at Derek, and Derek smirks as he looks back to his friend, “You were _sulking_.”

“I was _not_ sulking,” he denies instantly, he turns his head so he can look up at Dona Maria, “I wasn’t.”

Jackson was totally sulking.

He was the main reason that Derek never even managed to get Stiles’ number in the first place.  Stiles had to go back to work and Derek had wandered back to the VIP section like was walking on foaming clouds, only to find Jackson with the proverbial dark cloud hanging over his head because he had taken Lydia’s rejection to heart.

He had pouted and sulked and his ego had taken a crashing dive back to earth.

Derek like the good friend that he was, had laughed in his face, (drunken Derek was a douchey Derek) but had comforted Jackson nonetheless.

He did eventually sober up a little, apologising profusely before leading his best friend, Isaac and Cora into a taxi and straight to the loft, where they all crashed in a pile of tangled limbs on the couch.

Jackson had moped for a solid week, creeping around Derek’s loft when he wasn’t at work, performing dramatically miserable sighs all the while eating Derek’s food. Derek hadn’t had the heart to kick him out.

The following week, Jackson was back to his normal idiotic self, bringing _Marcella_ , his newest fling, to lunch with Derek and Cora and then going to mostly ignore them and choose instead to display copious amount of gross PDA.

Derek had merely grabbed his food and pulled Cora to her feet, dropping a few notes on the table to cover their combined bill before he hurried out of the restaurant. He left Jackson alone at the table with Marcella, sucking face with the girl like her mouth held the answers to all his existential questions.

The ‘relationship’ had ended less than three days later, Jackson insisting that it was nothing more than sex and Derek decidedly not commenting on the fiery red copper of Marcella’s hair. By this week he’d half-returned to his moping sulk.

“Was he sulking, Isaac, dear?” Dona Maria asks him, fingers curling through his light brown hair, as she smiled affectionately.

He grins and nods, “So much moping.”

Dona Maria sighs, looks at Jackson in a way that means: _there will be an extensive conversation about this_.

Jackson glares at Derek and at Isaac in turn; he’d obviously thought he’d been very sly in his mood, which is a laughable concept in and of itself because Jackson is the least subtle person Derek has ever met, and clearly he does not appreciate being called out on it in front of Dona Maria.

“Derek’s worse,” Jackson insists. “Last weekend he holed himself in his bedroom to marathon a new show. He didn’t come out _once_ , Dona Maria.”

“Eh,” Isaac pipes up from behind his glasses to defend him. “Derek does that all the time though, it’s not really _moping_ as much as pathetic.”

Derek should probably refute that claim as something heinous and untrue, but the kid’s got a point and hey, that was a _really_ good show.

He’s saved of having to say anything though, when Dona Maria spies a customer sweeping the crumbs of his pastry from the table and onto her pristine floors.

She grabs her tray and sets her face, pausing only to pat Isaac’s hair before she’s bustling over to the unsuspecting customer. The poor man is completely oblivious to the chastisement that is coming his way.

As soon as Dona Maria is gone Derek leans over the table towards Jackson and hisses, “Why did you tell her about Stiles?”

 “You told her about Lydia.”

“Because _you_ told _her_ about Stiles,” Derek narrows his eyes at his friend before he furrows his brows. “We have a _code_ , Jackson. You’re supposed to follow it.”

“Stella Matthews,” Jackson says after a beat, he lifts his chin and sniffs disdainfully. “Eighth grade.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Derek exclaims, slapping a hand to his forehead at the exact same time that Isaac rolls his eyes and mutters, “That was literally a decade ago, man. Let it go.”

Jackson grumbles petulantly but he says nothing more.

A little while later though, a thought occurs to Derek and he asks Jackson, “How did you even manage to tell her? You haven’t been to the café in weeks; you haven’t even _seen_ Dona Maria in ages.”

Jackson shrugs lightly, “We text.”

-

Isaac is weird.

Well clearly, Derek knows that he’s weird since he lives with him, but Isaac’s been _acting_ weird for the last couple of days.

It’s Friday evening and they’re sitting on their sofa in the loft as Derek guides Isaac through the basics of Marxism for his politics class.

It’s not anything that Isaac is doing, specifically, that makes it odd. In fact everything he’s doing is within the realm of the ordinary when they study. He’s sitting quietly beside Derek, nodding along when he understands, asking questions when he doesn’t, just like normal.

But there’s something definitively off, something vague and ambivalent just sort of _hanging_ in the air. And Derek’s not the only who’s notices, he keeps catching Jackson’s concerned gaze over Isaac’s head from across the room.

Isaac looks apprehensive every time his phone chimes with a new message, staring at it, hesitating over checking it and ultimately choosing to ignore it, despite Derek’s many assurances that he can answer it.

He merely brushes him off with an, “It's fine, Derek. Let’s just get this over with.”

When they take a breather about an hour later, Isaac heads the metal steps to the higher story of the loft to his bedroom to check his messages, and Derek heads to the kitchen.

Jackson is sitting at the counter proof-reading Derek’s thesis, making suggestions and alterations in an obnoxiously bright purple glittery gel pen, and he nods in acknowledgement at Derek.

“What’s with him?” Jackson murmurs quietly, inclining his head towards the stairs.

“I have no idea,” Derek admits, reaching into the fridge for the lemonade. “He’s been like that for days.”

“Has he talked to you?”

Derek shakes his head morosely, takes a gulp, offers the glass bottle to Jackson. “Nope, he keeps insisting he’s fine.”

Isaac comes down a little while later, hesitating on the bottom step as he regards Jackson and Derek in the kitchen as they look at him with poorly veiled concern.

He narrows his eyes a little before he huffs a sigh, rolls his eyes and says, “The girls are coming over soon. So, are we actually going to go back to studying now or do you want to analyse me some more?”

They work quietly and diligently for the remainder of their study period and Derek meticulously does _not_ ask Isaac if he’s okay.

It’s late into the night when the tension finally breaks. It dissipates quickly and cleanly, like the lightness of the day after a storm, when Nina, Cora and Laura stumble into the loft.

They’re already dressed and ready to go to _Pan’s_ , having been at Cora and Laura’s apartment all day, they're excited about a good night out.

Cora perches by Isaac’s side, leaning into him to hook her chin over his shoulder and she sighs as she knocks the textbook he’s reading out of his hands, “Come on, assface. We’ve got places to be.”

Twenty minutes later they’re all standing at various places of the loft waiting for Jackson to finish getting ready.

Nina is leaning over the counter, idly doodling profanities on Derek’s printed copy of his thesis draft and snickering to herself.

Derek rolls his eyes and heads over to where Isaac is laid, sprawled over the window seat, one long leg dangling over to the ground.

He hauls him up by his collar and drags him towards the stairs, pulling him up the metal steps because if Derek is going to try to pry Jackson from the mirror, he’s not going to be doing it alone.

When they eventually reach the club, it’s a little past midnight. The air is cold as they head into the darker months of the year, but none of them have bothered with jackets.

Nina had weaselled her way beneath Derek’s arm once they’d exited their taxis, burrowing into the heat of him as she shivers beneath her [white silk slip](http://www3.images.coolspotters.com/photos/759881/one-teaspoon-rose-silk-slip-dress-profile.jpg).

Jackson and Laura are at the front of the group, Isaac and Cora holding hands just to the right of them with Derek and Nina bringing up the rear.

Derek can practically hear the sigh emanating from the bouncer when he spots their group, or rather when he spots _Jackson,_ even from this distance.

It’s the same man from last time and Derek doesn’t even have to see his friend’s face to know that he’s probably wearing that ingratiating expression, all smug smirks and easy eyes.

The bouncer turns and addresses his assistant, a short guy this time, with dark eyes and ginger hair, and he has the VIP stamp in his hand by the time that they reach him.

He glares at Jackson, curtly stamping his wrist before ignoring him completely, but Derek is surprised to note the small nod the man gives _him_ in recognition and the small smile he directs to Nina.

Nina beams at him, presenting her wrist for him to stamp it.

The ink is a different colour this time, an effervescent green ink that sinks into the skin of Nina’s wrist like moss curling around the mortar of an old stone house.

The atmosphere of the club, when they actually arrive inside, is wholly different from the last time that they had been here.

[No Doubt](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pb_zZ3xItPI) blares from the speakers, the bass reverberates around the club and Derek can almost feel the vibrations crackle through the air and press against his skin. The dancefloor is a crowded mess of tangled bodies that have spilled over to press against the dark polished wood of the bar.

The dancefloor is dimly lit, the overhead brightness focused on the bartenders on top of the bar and Danny, who stands to the left on his podium with his earphones on his head and his whole body swaying as he grips and twists the sound system in front of him.

Derek doesn't see Stiles at first, but then he's stepping out from behind Scott and his attention zeroes on the man like a laser beam. 

He looks every single inch the beauty Derek remembers him to be, wearing a light grey pullover over dark slacks tucked into black lace-up boots, dancing free and loose on the bar. 

There's no rhyme or reason to the dancers today, they follow only the rhythm of the beat. 

Stiles is standing a little to the left between Scott and Lydia, with a bright grin over his face. 

Nina drags Derek further into the dancefloor, moving deftly between people before she pushes Derek in front of her so that his bulk can more effectively part the thick crowd. 

They reach the VIP section in no time, a considerable feat considering Derek continually turns his head to try to catch a glimpse of Stiles, and Derek feels like he can breathe once more. 

Nina leads him to the purple rope separating the dancefloor from their section, and she wraps her hand around his arm as she begins to sway by his side, her stilettos knocking into Derek's black sneakers as she hip-checks him in time to the beat. 

From this vantage point, Derek can clearly see Stiles, the light from overhead catches on the perspiration on his skin and makes him look like he's glowing. 

Unlike his colleagues, Stiles seems completely oblivious to the crowd. He moves with an animated sort of charisma and Derek's not entirely sure that Stiles realises how alluring he really is when he dances. 

He watches how expressions flicker over his face, visible even from this distance, just as loud and exaggerated as the swift movement of his body. 

He moves with the learned skill of someone who is more than used to disciplining their long, wayward limbs. 

There are moments where he completely embodies the dance, when Derek can _see_ the cultivation of dancing skill, the prowess Derek has seen him show in his choreographed dance. 

But then there are moments like this, when Stiles just gives in to the dance; he completely surrenders himself to it and it reminds Derek of the easy fluidity of the man pressed up close to his own body mere weeks before. 

Up on the bar, Stiles' gaze meanders over the dark expanse of the crowd, and when he turns slightly, his gaze sweeping into the dark crevice of the VIP area, Derek's heart stills in his chest for one solitary beat before it comes back in full force, thrumming relentlessly against his ribcage. He thinks, for that one second that, Stiles will actually see him, that their gazes will lock and, and...

And _nothing_.

Derek has expressly forbidden himself from thinking about anything other than seeing Stiles again, any further than really seeing him: face to face. 

But of course, this is Derek's life and he hardly ever gets nice things. 

Stiles' gaze clears cleanly over Derek and before he knows it, the moment's completely evaporated, like mist on his tongue.

Stiles raises both hands, spreading them wide in the air as he sings along before he drops one of them to clutch at the material of his pants at his crotch and pumps the other in the air, like a conductor orchestrating the sprawling mass of bodies in front of him. 

He ambles aimlessly across the bar, not entirely looking where he's going, doing an awkward shuffling step that's weirdly endearing. 

Stiles bumps into Boyd, turns his face back to look at him only to be confronted with his torso and he has to lift his head all the way up to find Boyd's eyes, standing tall and graceful behind him, and he just _grins_.

It's utterly _blinding_ , wide and open, and Derek is completely spell-bound. Something inside of him just melts at the sight. He watches as Stiles playfully nudges Boyd before they're standing side by side, leaning back on their hips and rolling their bodies in one long sinuous wave, in one way and then the other. 

Looking at Stiles, the way that his thin grey sweater clings to the contours of his body, the slight dampness to his glossy brown locks and the blush on his cheeks, Derek is sure that he falls a little bit in love.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there was a teeny tiny little bit of dancing in this chapter but I promise that there will be a whole lot MORE dancing in the next one, and some angst with Isaac, oh yes! This is me we're talking about, I have to angst! But don't worry it's not a TERRIBLE thing ... well not _too_ terrible anyway ;)  
>  I'm from Portugal originally, my mum is Cape Verdean and Maria is actually my mother's name, she's never been called Dona though (it's kind of like calling someone Mrs and she looks too young to be called it, fun fact: last year she got ID for lottery tickets - what even?!) but funnily enough, what I imagine Dona Maria to look like here is absolutely nothing like my mum!  
> The café is called Dica's because in Portugal there's this really strong, bitter coffee and it's dubbed BICA's which stands for "beba isto com açúcar" which literally means "drink this with sugar" ('cos dude, it is BITTER!). The word 'dica' however, means 'suggestion' in Portuguese so DICA's is a kind of interlingual word play because I am a linguistics geek. The café's music is actually inspired by this really cute coffee shop that was near my sixth form that me and my friends went to all the time and they had the BEST sweet waffles, topped with ice cream and chocolate sauce and strawberries and icing sugar. It was wonderful, believe me.  
> Um, that's kind of it really - see you soon! :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Rose DeWitt Bukater voice]: It's been eighty-four years ...
> 
> Fun Fact Number 1: I'm not dead! And neither is this fic.
> 
> Fun Fact Number 2: The last time I updated this I was still 17 years old. 
> 
> Fun Fact Number 3: I'm turning 19 next month.
> 
> Fun Fact Number 4: My talents include lying about when I’m updating, lusting after Sinqua Wall’s body and alternating between Candy Crush and Kim Kardshian’s Hollywood game for twelve hours a day. 
> 
> :)

Nina slips an arm around Derek’s waist, pulling him close to her side as they sway to the heavy bass that permeates through the atmosphere of the club. Derek usually feels the need to have a drink or three in him before he’s willing to dance in public, but Nina’s enthusiasm is contagious.

The club is dark for once, all attention placed on the brightly lit figures that take precedence over the bar-stage. Derek finds himself soaking up their energy, almost drunk on the sheer vitality of the place. The air is heavy with anticipation, tangy with the scent of alcohol and scorching with the weight of people wrapping around each other.

Derek places his forehead against Nina’s as they move, the bass beat of the song dictating the way that they move against each other. His eyes slip closed, feeling Nina’s body pressed tight and warm against his front, her silk slip sliding over his skin.

The moment is somewhat broken by Laura crashing into them. Her nails, painted a bright cherry red, dig into the muscle of his forearms.

“Holy mother of dibs,” she breathes, her eyes, wide and round, are fixed unerringly on the stage. “He is so mine.”

Nina and Derek follow the direction of her gaze, just as the noise of the crowd condenses into raucous clapping and loud wolf-whistles.

Over at the bar are Erica and Boyd, they’re standing more to the right, further away from where Derek and the others stand in the VIP area, but the spotlight is bright and clear on them.

Erica is stood behind Boyd, her stature matching his only because of the square-heeled ankle boots she has on. Her arms are around his waist, fingers teasing and light as they ease the hem of his shirt upwards.

Derek finds himself swallowing tightly as each new inch of Boyd’s skin is bared; gaze fixed on the sharp outline of the man’s hips, the strong contour of his abs, the definition of his pecs.

Nina’s breath catches beside him, as everyone in the room seems to watch them with baited breath - gleeful as Erica pulls Boyd’s shirt over his head and flings it behind her, lips pulled back over her teeth in a grin. 

“God,” Laura sighs, teeth sinking deep into her bottom lip. She jabs her elbow into Derek’s side. “Are you looking at this, Derek? Are you _seeing_ this? Am I hallucinating? Oh, god. I’m having a wet dream, aren’t I?”

“Yeah,” Derek agrees absently, his mouth dry all of a sudden. He’s transfixed on Boyd – keen eyes cataloguing each play of muscle as the man links his fingers on the nape of his neck and slowly, tantalisingly, swirls his hips down, tilted smirk playing on his lips.

His jeans hang low, the overhead lights, though bright, are soft enough to play on the enticing shadow of hair just beneath his jeans. His dark skin is mesmerising in in the light, shimmering under the hot beam of it, smooth and deep, and Derek wants to put his hands all over it.

Jackson slinks in on his other side, bumping shoulders with Derek. He takes a long, considering look at Boyd up on the bar and then smirks at Derek.

“Wanna share?” he asks.

“You’re straight,” Derek reminds him, not bothering to mention the fact that he would rather throw himself into a barrelful of hungry piranhas than involve himself in any kind of sexual situation with his best friend.

“I’d fuck him,” Jackson mutters, then he glances at Derek with a helpless shrug. “I don’t think anybody is straight for that guy.”

Derek shrugs, he’s got a point.

Jackson seems to seems to be highly aware of how sober he is, being a lot more self-conscious than Derek is. He peels himself away from the overeager clutches of a stubborn blonde and presses closer to Derek.

“There’s your boyfriend,” Jackson tells him, nodding at where Scott and Stiles are hanging out towards the edge of the bar, heads bopping to the beat and dancing in a style similar to what Cora’s best friend, Danielle, would call the ‘white boy struggle’.

Derek would feel second-hand embarrassment for them, but he knows for a fact that they _can_ actually dance and that they are no doubt having all of the fun to be had. He hip-checks Jackson away and rolls his eyes, amusement clear in his grin.

But then a [new song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ucz_pm3LX8) is introduced and all of Derek’s dreams come true.

As soon as that first hard beat drops, and Sean Paul’s roughened voice sounds out, Stiles’ head snaps up, searching across the length of the bar, for where Boyd has perked up in a similar fashion.

They move towards each other almost immediately, slinking towards each other in way that can be described as nothing short of predatory. They fit together seamlessly, Stiles’ fingers light on the smooth curve of Boyd’s hips as they begin to move, hips undulating from side to side.

They’re grinning at each other, the pureness of the camaraderie in their eyes at odds with the sensuality radiating from how their bodies move together. Stiles and Boyd are the centrepieces to the other four dancers.

They stand face-to-face, hips moving closer with each beat of the song, whilst the others four are spread out on the bar top, facing their entranced audience.

Erica and Allison hold court on the far right, falling into the same pattern that Scott and Lydia are enacting on the other side of where Boyd is curled over the inches between he and Stiles.

The four other dancers move in a rhythm that, while completely independent of the couple in the middle, seems to compliment it perfectly. They move in sinuous, uninterrupted lines.

Meanwhile, Stiles and Boyd swing their hips to the beat, until there’s barely a breath between them, and then Stiles is turning in Boyd’s arms, pressing his back to the man’s front and they both face their enraptured audience.

The breadth of each man’s shoulders is the same, but Boyd is taller than Stiles is, and his bare arms look positively wicked against the slender, clothed form in front of him.

Boyd swings his hips forward and Stiles moves with him – curling around the other man’s body with finesse and carefully wrought sexuality. They look utterly natural together, limbs working in tandem, Stiles’ head dropping back on Boyd’s shoulder, sweat beading over Boyd’s cropped hairline – they radiate vitality through every inch of them.

To either side of them, the dancers pair up, exuding the same kind of sexual energy, but each move is carefully controlled.

Erica wraps her long legs around Allison’s slender waist; her back curved in a graceful arch, blonde locks brushing over the dark wood of the bar. She keeps a tight grip on Allison’s arm even as they roll their hips into each other.

On the other side, Scott is draped against Lydia’s back, all fluid movements, as they roll their bodies down, until their knees are pressed to the bar top, and back up in one continuous line; her hand in buried in the thick hair at the nape of his neck, his large ones fitted carefully over her hips, guiding her actions.

Boyd is leisurely grinding forward into Stiles’ ass, and Stiles’ eyes are heavily lidded, but he neatly sidesteps Boyd and slinks in behind him.

His arms curve around Boyd’s waist and his hands, with those long skinny fingers and the delicately raised veins, look obscene as they spread over Boyd’s body.

They slide up over the sweat on Boyd’s belly, his abs stretching before curling up tight with each subsequent pump of his hips, and skim over Boyd’s pecs and back down – pale, gentle hands on sumptuous skin.

The crowd is apoplectic, voices indiscernible as it all melts into one huge pot of encouragement that only gets louder and louder the closer Stiles’ hands get to the fly of Boyd’s jeans.

Stiles is entirely aware of the way that he and Boyd look, given the self-satisfied grin on his face. He teases only slightly, however, before finally settling his hands on the slight dip of Boyd’s waist as they move. He presses his face to Boyd’s shoulder blade, glancing up beneath his lashes when the other man glances back. Stiles must be smiling into Boyd’s skin, because Boyd grants him a brilliant, answering grin and Derek wishes for nothing more at that moment than the opportunity to hip-check Boyd out of the way and insinuate himself between Stiles’ arms.

Derek drinks in every which way that Stiles curls his hips into Boyd’s ass, helplessly wondering if that’s how Stiles would move in bed.

The lights dim, changing subtly from the stark white into a creamier golden tone, bathing the dancers in soft shimmer and radiance.

Boyd and Stiles break away from each other. Boyd turns right, moving to cover Erica’s back, trapping her between he and Allison whilst Stiles and Scott do the same to Lydia on the other side.

Within, seemingly, no time at all, the group is split into two clusters as the [new track](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ifkBc6Vcep8) pulses through the club. They move in the same sinuous movements, Lydia and Erica writhe in the middle of their respective groups.

Erica slides her hands into the back pockets of Allison’s jeans, dragging the other girl closer, even as she artfully winds her ass back into Boyd.

Lydia has a death grip in Stiles’ hair, rose-pink lips hovering close to Stiles’, where he’s hanging over her shoulder, Scott’s hands around her waist.

Then they’re breaking apart once more, moving to spread out across the bar top. The bartenders fall back into rhythm and through their dance they hit each note hard - bodies moving surely and succinctly, all angular limbs and limber legs, movements punctuated by a slowly-rendered, simultaneous ripple of a dirty curl to their hips or a curve of their backs that flows across the line of them like water.

Their movements are simple, but utterly and completely breath-taking in their symmetry, in the synchronicity that runs from Scott at one end of the line to Allison, standing on the other.

The lights dim further even as the music blasts ever louder, Danny controlling both mediums from his glass and leather empire. The lights black out almost completely, engulfing the entire club in darkness saturated with heat and lust.

When Danny lifts the lights again, the six bartenders are behind the bar - looking a little out of breath but _glowing_ , with wide smiles on their faces as they go about starting to tend again.

Nina and Laura immediately follow the crowd of VIP’s gushing towards the centre of the dance floor, dragging Derek and Jackson with them. Derek glances over his shoulder, trying to see where Isaac and Cora had disappeared off to, only to find them curled over each other on one of the newly-vacated armchairs.

-

The goal is to get Isaac drunk.

The kid is a notorious over-sharer when he’s had more than a few drinks and so a plan, formed via covert glances and subtle head nods, was formed in the cabs over to the club.

So they’ll get Isaac drunk – completely and utterly shitfaced – so drunk he won’t be able to do anything more than mumble through the reasons as to why he’s been so fucking dour lately. And if that doesn’t work, well, at least they will have drowned his sorrows.

Naturally, that means Derek is their designated mostly-sober carer. This part of the plan went unmentioned, mostly because Derek trusts exactly none of his friends when they’ve had a drink or eight.

Two hours after they first arrived at the club, they’re all scattered throughout the wide expanse of the dance floor. The lights are dim, and the bass is thick and heavy, coursing through Derek’s blood like lava. The bodies around him are packed close and tight. A girl Derek’s never seen before is pressed over his front, her small breasts at full view from where they are pressed up against his chest.

But he’s not paying any attention, much to her chagrin.

Instead Derek is awkwardly shuffling his hips from side to side, even as he tries to parse out what the fuck Jackson is trying to say from the other side of the club.

 _‘What?’_ Derek mouths over, shrugging to communicate that he doesn’t understand.

Jackson is slowly getting more frustrated, jerking his arms towards Derek, face twisted in annoyance. He points at Derek and then, very obviously exaggerating his movements, turns slowly to point to somewhere behind Derek.

Even when Derek follows his best friend’s direction, it still takes him a second to understand what he’s supposed to be looking at.

Then he sees it, Isaac, scowling as he broods, leaning against one of the pillars in the club.

He’s looking more and more upset as the seconds tick by, signalling his growing soberness. Isaac’s always been kind of a lightweight when it comes to drinking, but it also means that he tends to burn the alcohol from his system very quickly.

Derek disentangles himself from the girl draped over him and makes his way through the dense crowd, having to bat away more than a few searching hands as he navigates through the almost darkness.

He siddles up next to Isaac, casually leaning a shoulder on the pillar next to him, nodding in greeting.

Isaac waves the almost empty glass of alcohol in his hand in turn, scowling bitterly as he bottoms the last remaining dregs.

“Want a top up?” Derek asks, raising his voice and leaning in close in order to be heard through the sheer noise of the club. “My treat.”

Isaac instantly looks suspicious; Derek’s always been vocal about his disapproval of Isaac drinking in public places.

He narrows his eyes at him, pointing an accusing finger and slurring a little, “Jackson put you up to this.”

“Maybe I’m being nice,” Derek shrugs, glancing around the club to avoid Isaac’s shrewd gaze.

“You?” Isaac cries incredulously, which - _rude_. “Nice? _”_

Derek rolls his eyes before he clamps a hand over the meat of Isaac’s shoulder, pulling him stumbling along. “I can be nice sometimes.”

They fight their way to the north of the club and sidle up to the bar, forcing their way into claiming space at the bar.

Isaac is standing beside Derek, swaying listlessly from side to side and completely oblivious to the way that Derek forlornly casts his gaze up and down the bar searching for the brown-haired, long-limbed beauty from a fortnight ago. Derek’s eager gaze hops from bartender to bartender, and he feels his heart sinking all the way down to his stomach when he realises that Stiles isn’t among them. 

He and Isaac are still squeezed in at the bar, their broad shoulders making space around them, when Allison catches Derek’s eye.

She’s standing on the other side of the bar, but even from this far Derek can see recognition light up in her eyes. She smiles, bright and wide, pausing as she pours vodka into a shaker. Allison jabs her elbow back to where Boyd is standing behind her, bony limb digging into the man’s back.

Boyd whirls around, annoyed but seemingly unsurprised at the harsh treatment of his colleague. He glances at her before following her gaze, he registers Derek and his own face clears in understanding.

He nods at Derek, who’s feeling woefully confused at the display, and then wanders over to where Lydia is serving a customer nearer to where Derek and Isaac are standing.

Whatever Boyd says to the redhead has her spine stiffening; Lydia glances sharply at her friend and then swings her head around, long locks whipping across Boyd’s face, to pin a shrewd look on Derek.

Derek and Isaac flinch back in simultaneous reaction.

Isaac warily glances over his shoulder at Derek, his hot breath washing over Derek’s face in a shower of vaporised alcohol and the complimentary wrapped mints on the bar.

“If I get kicked out,” Isaac warns drunkenly, the effect wholly ruined by the slur in his voice and the lethargy in his slant. “I’mma let my brother run you over wi’the Por- _sche_.”

Derek pushes him away with a hand to the face.

Lydia is continually jabbing her finger into the meat of Scott’s bicep, even as the man tries to fulfil the order in front of him.

“What?” Scott bites out, shakily coating the ice in his glass with candy-red tequila. “ _Lydia!_ ”

Derek can see her mouth moving as she leans in to whisper in Scott’s ear, but he can’t make out any of the words due to the heavy, base-reliant sound reverberating across the club. But he guesses it must be to do with him as both Lydia and Scott soon turn with sly, almost too-eager looks in his direction.

Derek leans towards to Isaac, “Do I have something on my face?”

Isaac doesn’t answer, but it doesn’t matter, Derek fists a hand in the back of his shirt and pulls him in front of him as a makeshift human shield anyway.

Two hands slap on the gleaming wood on the bar in front of them – and they both jump half a foot in the air.

In front of them is not the explosion of fireworks Derek expected, but rather a tiny firecracker of a woman – Erica, with her shiny blonde curls pulled up in a ponytail and a wide grin gracing her face.

She looks much younger this close up, despite the heavy kohl lining her eyes and her ruby stained, perfectly plump lips. She’s leaning over the counter, arms casually folded on the countertop, brown eyes twinkling with unmitigated delight and Derek has never felt more apprehensive terror about a girl.

“Hi,” she greets, smooth and predatory. “It’s Derek, isn’t it?”

“Um,” says Derek.

There’s a long, more than slightly awkward pause.

Isaac, bless his soul, answers for him.

“Yes,” he says, strangely articulate for someone who was drunkenly humming the Lion King theme tune to himself not twenty minutes ago in the middle of a crowded dance-floor. “Yes, he is.”

Erica turns towards Isaac, dragging her gaze all over him. “Hi,” she says to him, voice pitched just slightly lower. “How you doin’?”

Isaac flounders beside Derek, expression going tight and panicked. He throws a desperate look towards him, but Derek’s too busy ignoring the prickle of four pairs of eyes trained on him from various areas of the bar.

“I-,” Isaac says to Erica, valiantly keeping his gaze firmly on her face, voice strangled. “I’m taken.”

Erica blinks.

“Hi, taken,” she says, expression giving way to a sly smile that makes its way across her face. “I’m Erica.”

Isaac chokes on air, gaping at her, “Did you just _dad joke_ me?”

“Hey, uh,” Derek interrupts, shouldering his way in front of Isaac to catch Erica’s attention. “ _Erica_. Hi. Do we know each other?”

“I know _of_ you,” she replies mildly, eyes rocketing over his form. Derek resists the urge to wrap his arms around his body in a fit of modesty.

“Know what?” he demands, utterly discomfited by her knowing grin – she’s like a Cheshire cat wrapped in leather and chiffon. “From whom?”

“Oh,” Erica teases. “I know _lots_ , big guy.”

Stiles chooses that precise moment to re-enter the bar. He’s carrying two crates of newly washed glasses, calm as can be, but as soon as he catches sight of Erica and Derek he jolts and freezes in the threshold.

Panic gripping his features, Stiles hastily deposits the crates on the bar of the back wall and hurries over to where Erica stands, not-so-subtly hip-checking her out of the way.

“Stiles!” Erica exclaims.

“Erica,” Stiles replies through gritted teeth, embarrassed smile on his face as his gaze hops from Erica to Derek to Isaac and back again. He wraps an arm around her shoulder, shaking her as he gives a short brittle laugh. “What are you doing here?”

“Working,” Erica tells him, brown eyes wide and innocent. “Socialising, talking to your boyfriend.”

Stiles shifts subtly, slowly inching the arm around Erica’s shoulder up so he can cover her mouth with the palm of his hand.

“Ignore her,” he pleads Derek, cheeks gradually flushing to a bright, _bright_ red. “She thinks she’s funny.”

Erica peels Stiles’ hand from her face, primly informing him, “I _am_ funny. Funnier than _you_.”

“That’s great,” Stiles enthuses, pushing her away with a gentle shove. “Really it is. Maybe it can be your new career after I fire you and kick your cute butt to the curb.”

“You would never,” Erica says, but she diligently walks over to a waiting patron.

“Don’t test me,” Stiles calls after her, but there’s fondness smoothing the edges of his smile. He looks back over to Derek, brown eyes crinkling in the corners, though Derek can spy a little nervousness in his gaze. Stiles clears his throat, nodding towards where Isaac is practically draped over Derek’s shoulder. “Another best friend?”

“Best friend’s little brother, actually,” Derek smiles. He’s unable to _stop_ , really, and they end up standing there for an inordinate amount of time just grinning at each other.

When Derek is finally able to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth and order a drink for himself and Isaac, Stiles seems to snap into motion – eyes lighting up even as he bites down on his bottom lip.

“I’ve got something for you,” he says, before quickly ducking underneath the bar and re-emerging with a laminated piece of heavy, black stationery. He turns it writing-side up towards Derek and taps it twice, a wry smile playing on his lips.

The writing on the stationery is clean, solid and ivory in colour, sunken deep into the page – the bar’s labyrinth motif pressed small and neat above the succinctly stylised title at the top. But that’s not what catches Derek’s attention. This is a _drinks_ menu, with Lydia’s _Pan’s_ specials taking up space amongst the standard cocktail offers.

“A menu?” Derek says, completely stupefied, the tips of his ears reddening as he remembers the fumbling way he’d first approached Stiles the last time he’d been here. No amount of alcohol will ever be enough to erase how much he’d embarrassed himself.

“Yeah,” Stiles replies, leaning more heavily on the bar, taking up an air of casual nonchalance. “This guy came by the other week – total doofus, y’know? - and asked me if I had a menu, acting like he’d never heard of my club,” Stiles takes a minute to look thoroughly offended. “But he did kinda make it up to me. Took me out to dance and then kissed me. I mean, it was a _great_ kiss, so couldn’t just ignore his request, could I?”

Stiles is smiling, but Derek feels like someone has just pissed all over everything he loves. It must show on his face because Stiles grows less  and less amused and more concerned as the seconds tick by.

The bar is loud and vibrant with music, jagged beats and synthetic choruses – the stuff made solely for getting high and dancing all night and Derek wants to do nothing but pout his way to a whisky bottle … and even a cliff, maybe.

Stiles is looking expectantly at Derek, eyebrows raised high. And then it hits.

“ _Oh_ ,” Derek says, so loud that it startles Isaac (who’d began to doze off) beside him. “You mean …” he weakly hooks a thumb towards himself. Stiles means _Derek_ , not some other, _other_ person. That was dumb, and also pathetically insecure.

Derek makes a note to address that later, in private and alone, as he snags a hand in the back of Isaac’s shirt and reels him back in, preventing him from charging head forth into the dark, crowded dance floor by himself.

“Yeah, dumbass,” Stiles says, smiling. “I mean _you_. And, if you’re still willing, I’d love to give us another round.”

Derek can’t believe his fucking luck. The words stick in his mouth he’s so freaking excited, and he briefly berates himself for not turning up days and days earlier – he could have been macking on Stiles all this time.

Damn.

He opens his mouth to say ‘Yes, obviously,” and “I want to suck your dick so bad,” when Stiles rushes straight over his words, which, Derek thinks, is probably a blessing in disguise.

“I mean,” Stiles starts, waving his hand as the awkwardness creeps into his expression. “You don’t _have_ to, obviously. It’s just a suggestion. I don’t want you to feel like I’m forcing you to dance with me – that would suck the passion straight out of it.” Stiles looks more and more distressed as the words tumble out of his mouth, eyes rapidly darting back and forth over Derek’s face as he tries to gauge his expression. “But I’d like us to,” Stiles settles on, smiling hesitantly. “It’s just … we’re in a club-”

“Clubbing,” Derek agrees.

“All up in the club,” Stiles laughs, hands even lifting to raise the roof a couple of times.

It’s dorkishly embarrassing and Derek finds it highly endearing.

It’s official; he’s a total goner.

-

When Derek prompts him to, Isaac points to a random item on the menu before striking up a conversation with a fellow drunk beside him. Stiles dutifully gets to making the drink, pulling out ingredients with a skill that Derek only wishes he possessed.

The concentration in his face is fascinating, the way his lips move – just slightly noticeable – as he sings along to the music blaring overhead, looking up once in a while to catch Derek’s eye and smile.

He’s still got red pooling low and heady in his cheeks from when Derek accepted his offer of a second dance, though his blush could rival that of Derek’s and Derek has never been more thankful than he is at this very moment of having a perpetual five o’clock shadow.

Stiles is dousing his shaker with perfunctory splashes of vodka, adding in a sprig of mint, another of eucalyptus, a dash of grated ginger, a few slices of lemon and a generous scoop of crushed pomegranates before closing and shaking it well.

Derek passes a hand over his neck, eyes trained on the straining muscles of Stiles’ forearms.

“You, ah,” he starts, and Stiles glances at him. “You ever feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, for no reason?” Like he’s being stared at, Derek thinks.

“That’ll be my friends staring at you,” Stiles tells him.

Derek whips his head up and, sure enough, there’s a millisecond’s delay between the other five bartenders realising that they’ve been caught in the act and them busily pretending that they’re very, _very_ busy with fulfilling their orders.

Stiles chuckles, and Derek turns to him, eyes narrowed. But Stiles just smiles and shakes his head, biting down on his grin as he pours cranberry juice into the shaker.

He shakes it once more before placing a sieve over one of the glasses in front of him, to catch those unruly pomegranate seeds, and pours the liquid over the glass.

The drink is a deep, vibrant red when Stiles pushes it towards him, glinting like ruby jewels in the light. Derek tugs at Isaac’s shirt and waits for him to turn around – “I was having a _conversation_ , Derek,” – before giving him the Bite.

The drink is, as Stiles warned it would be, both very bitter and highly alcoholic in content.

Isaac rasps out a weak, “Thanks,” towards Stiles and pats Derek on the shoulder, turning around to his companion once more.

“He’s very friendly,” Stiles notes, starting to repeat his motions for Derek’s drink.

“Only when he’s drunk,” Derek admits. “You should see him when I’ve accidently deleted what he’s TiVo’d.”

“Accidentally?” Stiles echoes, eyebrows raised in clear scepticism.

“No-one needs that many episodes of _Pawn Stars_ ,” Derek mutters darkly.

-

Derek’s been in the middle of the dance floor for, what feels like, the best part of forever. 

The entire place is swathed in near darkness – a concentrated heat of people moving together in the same rhythm. He’s dancing alone, Cora having swept by to get Isaac earlier, and Stiles’ drink seems to have affected him more than he expected, despite heeding Stiles’ advice and taking it slow.

Derek’s sure it’s mostly burned off by now anyway, and he’s pretty much just following the rise and flow of everyone around him.

He has his eyes closed, and there are strobe lights flickering over the entire room – flickers and bursts of light behind his lids. [Disclosure](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=93ASUImTedo) floods the speakers, and Derek can feel each beat thumping through his chest, vibrations sinking under his skin and tremors rattling through the bones of his ribs.

He’s lost in it now; sweat misting over his features, head tipped back as he moves along with the liquid momentum of the song. Cool fingers wrap around his forearm, and Derek’s been disentangling himself from strangers for hours now, but the feel of those fingers on his skin – the dichotomy between their temperatures – makes him turn around.

Stiles is there, holding on to him even as he squeezes past the swarming masses that surround them. How he found Derek in this mess, he’ll never know.

Stiles’ eyes are locked on to Derek, dilated to accommodate the darkness, and then he’s stood in front of him – gorgeous and towering.

He’s leaning forward slowly, slow enough for Derek to be able to stop him should he wish, but there’s no way on Earth Derek is going to miss Stiles’ mouth on his.

He feels Stiles’ tiny, exuberant exhale vaporise against his skin just split second before Stiles’ mouth is sliding over his lips. The world is in motion around them, but it might as well have stopped for all Derek cares.

Stiles’ hands are fitted to Derek’s waist, head tilted as he captures Derek’s bottom lip between his own. They fit together so easily, Derek’s hands on Stiles’ back to pull him closer, mouths stealing kisses and smiles as the lights from overhead plays on their closed eyelids.

Stiles wraps his arms around Derek’s shoulders, tongue sliding into the warm heat of Derek’s mouth as he deepens the kiss. Derek holds on tighter, squeezing the other man to him as they stand – wrapped around each other.

When the chorus hits, Derek pulls back a little, he presses their foreheads together instead and opens his eyes, taking in Stiles’ deep brown eyes and his smile.

They stay like that, their arms around each other, even as they begin to dance. Derek covetously tracks each expression that marks Stiles’ face, the flickering strobe lights providing momentary fragments of illumination.

Stiles’ hands seem to be everywhere at once, sliding over Derek’s chest, sinking into his hair, the muscle of his back. And fuck, Derek has missed this – because dancing with Stiles is so much more than the physical act. Derek has danced with various people in his life, and various people _tonight_ , but none of them ever felt like this.

He doesn’t know how to describe it because it isn’t a feeling really, it’s more of a state of being - a state of _comfort_ with each other. It’s startling to Derek that he’s managed to find this level of contentment in a stranger’s body without it having anything to do with sex, or being a prelude to sex, and everything to do with the magnetism that holds strong between them.

Stiles seems punch drunk with the rhythm, swinging his hips into Derek, pressing kisses to the corner of his mouth, and Derek feels entirely compelled to follow his lead.

He ducks in pressing a firm kiss to Stiles’ mouth, dragging over his cheek, his jaw and finally culminating in the pulse point of his slender throat. His lips tingle with the vibrations of Stiles’ voice rumbling through his throat as he sings along to the song blaring out over them, head tilted back and eyes closed as he loses his voice to the chaos around them.

The lighting shifts and lowers into a deep crystalline blue, and Derek blinks his eyes open as the [new song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JwlgC-jSPTk) breaks over the air, and his breath freezes in his throat.

Stiles’ smile is _blinding_. The way he’s looking at Derek, with soft eyes and relaxation marking every inch of his body, it does something to Derek, because he hasn’t been looked at like that in a very long time. Stiles is completely comfortable within himselfand it’s _mesmerising_ ; completely and utterly captivating.

The blue filtered light drifts slowly over his pale skin, like a dream, catching on the amber of Stiles’ eyes and those dark eyelashes that surround them. Derek can swear up and down that he’s never seen a more beautiful sight in his entire twenty four years of life.

They disentangle themselves, but keep close, as they dance. Stiles is running his fingers through his hair, a thin layer of sweat over his forehead and the hollow of his throat, arms flailing in the air around him.

There’s a loud hiss of a noise from above, and then a dense layer of artificial smog is descending over them. The crowd around them yell and scream their enthusiasm, and Stiles joins right in with them, mouth wide and laughing.

The smog makes it seem that they’re the only ones around – just he and Stiles. And it’s such a picture, to see the way that Stiles moves, silken and carefree, with a cover of fog around him.

Before long he and Stiles are jumping along with the people around them, fingers tangled together and raised high up above them as they lose themselves in the music.

-

Derek’s obviously never wandered through the back passages of the club, but he hardly pays any mind to it now, not with Stiles’ hand in his. His eyes are firmly on Stiles, as the man guides him through the, heh, _labyrinthine_ passages.

Stiles fingers are loosely curled around Derek’s own, and the heavy bass beat they’d left behind in the club follows them in vibrations that Derek feels with each step forward.

When they hit the grand staircase to go up, Stiles glances at Derek over his shoulder, “Okay?” he asks, for the third time in the past five minutes. His voice is rough and low with the amount of yelling he’d done as they were dancing, and Derek would be lying if he said that the timber of it wasn’t going straight to his cock.

Rather than answering, Derek leans forward, feeling a trickle of excitement rush down his spine because he can just _kiss_ Stiles now, and slides his mouth over the other man’s. It takes a bit of manoeuvring, and a lot of breaks spent making out against the wall, before they get up the two flights of stairs.

As soon as they hit the landing on the second floor Derek pulls Stiles towards him, voracious and insatiable in the way that he licks into Stiles’ mouth. But Stiles is so beautifully responsive, fingers sinking into Derek’s hair even as he pants and sighs long, dragged out moans that seem to tremble through his entire body.

They fall through Stiles’ office door, and Derek guesses that they’re somewhere over the main part of the club, just two floors up, the vibrations seem thicker somehow, the roar of the crowd settling just beneath that.

It makes it all the more intimate, as Stiles and Derek stare at each other, eyes dark and keen with expectation.

Stiles leans up to kiss Derek, guiding him backwards by two fistfuls of his shirt. They trip over dark nothings on the way, causing Stiles to snicker as Derek struggles to keep their balance with his hands on Stiles’ hip.

And Derek thinks, _fuck, this is going to be one to remember._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was pretty meh. I'll do better next time.  
> Thanks to Nicole for all the cheerleading (and shaming me into finishing this chapter), couldn't have done it without you, boo. ♥

**Author's Note:**

> Derek likes hitting people, I blame Leroy Jethro Gibbs. This is literally just an excuse to write about the gang dancing on table tops, and imagining Sinqua's wonderful physique. Mmm. Yes. But mostly it's for the dancing.


End file.
